


Lead Me Home

by PlatinumAndPercocet



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Blatant lyric useage, Catholic Guilt, Chronic Illness, Confessions, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Knifeplay, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Needles, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Permanent Injury, Power Exchange, Roman Catholicism, Scars, tissues needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2018-12-08 22:18:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 31,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumAndPercocet/pseuds/PlatinumAndPercocet
Summary: A story of finding yourself in the most unexpected of places and losing what you had always thought you would have. But sometimes, in order to truly know what you have, you need to look at it from a new perspective.





	1. Lead Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> So. This is a huge departure from my normal routine, but Flames_and_Jade insisted I give it a try. I have been working on it in varying increments for well over two years and she decided that it MUST BE SEEN. and who am I to say no to one of my favorites? I am weak, I tell you. It is not nearly finished and updates will probably be sporadic, but they will happen. I am super semi-proud of this one and I really hope you all enjoy it. Comments make me flaily and teary, creative criticism is more than welcome. This is pretty close to my heart and I hope all y'all enjoy. I am happy to answer any and all questions as I can, please ask me all the things. Comments are rewarded with babble and endless thanks. And now that I am done babbling, happy reading, thank you for taking time out of your undeniably busy lives to look at my ridiculousness and I really hope you enjoy.

Hope is a funny thing. It is said that it springs eternal and yet it is so fragile that it can crumble from the breeze of a butterfly's wings. I can remember as a child having hope, the kind that only comes with the wide-eyed innocence of youth. Hope for small things, a certain doll from the store or a peanut butter and graham crackers for snack at school. Hope was so easy back then, and even when it was broken, it was easily put back together, mended with a bit of time and a distraction. That all changed when I was six, however and hope became something else entirely. Hope became something that caused my once vibrant and loving mother to deteriorate into herself, falling into a shell of what she once was. She seemed to shrink into herself even as her stomach expanded. The long blonde hair that I had once loved to brush turned brittle and dull, eventually ending up in a heap on the floor bound for the trash. Hope dimmed the warmth into her brown eyes leaving them lifeless and flat. It even seemed to pull the softness from her skin, leaving it dry and instead of the gentle touch of a lemon scented hand on my cheek, there was…. nothing. And then one day, Hope was gone, my mother’s stomach no longer swollen with no explanation. Hope became a name on a stone, set in lush green grass that we brought flowers to every few months. As the years passed, time moved on but my mother didn’t. Hope was soon joined by Faith, Chastity and Angel all before I reached eleven. I was old enough then to understand what was going on, to know the signs and make myself strong. 

It got worse with each young life that was snuffed out before it started. Angel was the worst, and the last, that proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. My mother was nearly a stranger after that and I remember that last night with my father, his voice was loud and filled with anguish as he screamed, pleaded with my mother to just come back to him, to us. Her wails, in contrast were nearly animalistic as she wept and shrieked. The crack of a palm against cheek was so loud I could hear it even down the hall, from my hiding place beneath my bed as I peeked out beyond the lace bedskirt. The door shut and he was gone. I stayed in my hiding place all night, eventually falling asleep under there, clutching my favorite book and a worn stuffed animal, a dead flashlight at my side . 

That was the end of hope, in all senses of the word. I lost my mother that day, even if she was physically still with me. I didn’t know her anymore, and I tried. I tried with all the earnestness that a child could muster, drawing pictures, reading stories, even making my own slightly sad attempts at meals. None of it worked. I even prayed, each and every night bent before my bed, that God would fix my mother. God, however, did not have his hands in this and the night the mania from the schizophrenia manifested itself in a religious obsession for the first time, I prayed for the very last. 

I survived somehow, managing to care not only for myself but my mother as well while the years passed. Things weren’t always bad. When she was lucid, I could still get glimpses of the woman she used to be, that soft, warm, elegant lady from my early years; the one who had taken me to dance class and baked birthday cakes, braided my hair and played hide and seek. Mental illness, however, was a cruel mistress and those teases of what was, those slices of normalcy always hurt even more as they faded away. 

The day I turned eighteen, I was finally able to make that call. Instead of a celebrating with family, I spent the evening in the emergency room with a broken nose and wrist, red scratches stinging the skin of my forearms. When the police had shown up, my mother had worked herself into a frenzy, shrieking and striking out with all of the force that was in her fragile body. In the end, it had taken four officers and two paramedics with a hefty dose of Haldol just to get her out of the house. She had never raised her hands to me before but as she was restrained, screaming and weeping she lashed out with a force that seemed impossible coming from her frail body. 

It wasn’t until I had gotten home at nearly four in the morning that I let myself cry, and cry I did. I collapsed in the middle of the living room, shattered glass and splintered wood pricking my delicate skin. I wept not only for my mother but for myself for the first time. It was the last year I acknowledged my birthday. 

I left the next day after cleaning up the mess and arranging with a neighbor to keep an eye on the house. She had a daughter and infant granddaughter all crammed into the modest one bedroom. Her kindness had never been unnoticed by me and she hugged me, tears in her eyes as I handed her the keys to the three bedroom bungalow. “You are a gift, Grace. Go and find what you need, no matter how long it takes or where the road may lead.” Her words held just a hint of an accent and she smelled of cloves and oranges as she embraced me, the tears soaking my shoulder. 

Something changed in me in that moment, something I had never felt before. It gave me purpose, to be able to give of myself even though it left me with so little. The material possessions that I had once held so dear meant nothing suddenly, the craving for things replaced by a need to serve. I tossed a bag in the back seat of my car, filled with the essentials that I would need and drove off, not knowing where I was going or what I would do, only that I needed to go. 

I drove for months, stopping in tiny towns and big cities alike, working as a waitress or chambermaid when needed for funds, and living in hotels. It was a transient life, with very little support but it suited me. The joy that I got when someone thanked me more than made up for the sparseness of my existence. 

I didn’t return home for nearly a year, and even then it was only because I had to. The wind was bitter and the clouds hung over head, an angry green-grey that threatened a deluge at any moment. I could hear the thunder rumbling as I pulled the car to a stop and the first crashes of lightning began as I stepped out of the vehicle. The stones, once shining and new were slightly faded with time, and the plots nearly overgrown with grass. There were no weeds, though, somehow, and I brushed the leaves from each stone in turn, the granite freezing beneath my bare hand, wetness from the ground soaking through my jeans as I placed a single yellow rose on each of the four small markers in turn. I felt the tears stinging my eyes, and I told myself that it was just the rain but when I knelt beside the final stone, I knew that I was deluding myself. As I rested the final rose on my mother’s grave, my fingers dancing over the engraved words, I wept and the sky opened up, the heavens weeping with me. I cried until there was nothing left in me, begged and pleaded, screaming to a God that didn’t exist, that had long since forsaken me for some sign, for a reason. He said nothing as the storm raged on, the icy rain pelting my cheeks as I finally lay, trembling and spent across the AstroTurf, my throat raw from screaming and my eyes swollen. My body was a shambles as I lay there shivering in the storm but my soul was renewed, the rains falling from above having aided in my catharsis and leaving me empty but somehow whole again. It was the last time I cried.

When I finally was able to stand, sodden and shaking, I got in my car and drove, not stopping until I reached Las Vegas. I didn’t know what I was looking for but I knew there was only one place I would find it.


	2. Like Amber Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bright lights and expensive cigars...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I have things already written. And sometimes I get super eager to post those things when I shouldn't because they haven't been beta'd or even read over. But sometimes, I just want to make my cheerleader (And my inner instant gratification whore) happy. So, I may post three chapters a day, I may post none, I do, however, hope you enjoy this little tale of mine. Chapters will be fairly short glimpses into the life of our main character. Comments and kudos give me life. I am super shy but I love to talk to people, so please chat with me? Want more updates? Less? Is there something specific you would like to see? Want to know what the characters look like? Let me know and we can make it happen. Once again, all the love to Flames_And_Jade for telling me to post this mess in the first place. Go read all of her work, it is magical. Thank you all so much for taking the time to check out my ramblings!

Vegas was a playground, a mecca for overindulgence, with every imaginable virtue and vice available at the snap of your fingers or the ring of a bell. I arrived late on July fourth and my first sight of the dazzling city, always sparkling with lights, was magnified by the explosions of color that burst across the sky in celebration. I still can’t see fireworks without being transported back to that moment. There was something so innocent about it, standing there with hundreds of other people just… staring up at the sky. It was the first in a long string of them, although I didn’t know it then. 

I found work easily, despite my spotty history, cocktail waitressing at one of the casinos on strip. It was not a glamorous job, but it paid enough for me to live somewhere that wasn’t completely awful, even if my feet did kill me at the end of the shift. I learned more than I realized as I worked, carefully filing the tiny facts about regulars away in case I needed them again; who drank whiskey and who preferred gin, how a certain player needed his chair just so; who counted cards and who didn’t and, most importantly, how to be charming. It did not come easily to me, not at first. I had always been what may have been called an old soul, choosing to retreat into myself as opposed to putting myself out in the open but my livelihood literally depended upon making people like me. And so I did. I learned small tricks from the other girls I worked with, how to flirt and when to pull away. It was difficult at first but I soon found myself embracing the tactics, using them as a kind of armor to go aside the paint that decorated my face. And eventually, after six months, it paid off in the most surprising of ways. 

I can still smell the man, his expensive cologne mixed with the pungent smoke from the cigar that was always in his mouth. It turned my stomach but after delivering a few rounds of drinks I was used to it. When he spoke it surprised me, his voice did not match his outward appearance at all; instead of cocky and sure it was almost gentle, meek and quiet. The question he asked was one that has been used thousands of times in this city, and others but for some reason, in that calm voice, it rang a bit more honest. ‘Have you ever done any modeling?’. I hadn’t, not even close, and said as much. He just slipped me a card, tucked between two hundred dollar bills and told me to call him if I ever decided to give it a shot. I slipped the card and tip into my pocket, fully intending to throw it out but I lost track of time and didn’t discover it until a week later. And I called. 

The first shoot is a blur, even today, a decade later, but small things are as sharp in my mind as tacks; the shocking blue of a particular swimsuit, the way the flash nearly blinded me the first time it went off; the deep red lacquer painted on my lips, tasting faintly of vanilla. I was awkward and uncomfortable at first, drawing my long limbs into myself, my gaze often focused down towards my manicured toes. I wasn’t a model, I was a waitress and a gangly one at that, all long legs and arms with a long nose and too much hair for my own good. But somehow, Vince made it work and I didn’t hide my shock when I looked at the proofs of that first shoot. It was like looking at a funhouse mirror instead of a photo; I was shy and uncomfortable but Vince, with his eye and the use of shadows and light, transformed the awkward duckling into something of a swan, an ingenue of the highest order. It was art. I was art. And I was hooked. 

After that day things escalated rapidly as though I was tumbling headfirst down a rabbit hole and the modeling world was wonderland, filled with all of the excesses and colorful characters of Vegas but on a larger scale. I booked jobs quickly, some so fast it made my head spin. In a matter of two months I went from a cocktail waitress hustling for tips to make rent to a working model, moving out of my studio apartment and into a condo. I was flush with anticipation, never blinded by the money or drugs that were so very prevalent in my new world. Instead, I kept my aquiline nose to the grindstone and worked hard, showed up early and stayed late. I made myself into a star pupil, in more ways than one. I photographed well, the camera liked me and my face appeared in regional campaigns and editorials of fashion magazines. ‘You’re a chameleon darling, you can be anybody.’ It was my manager’s favorite saying, her heavily German accented words always accompanied by a haze of mentholated cigarette smoke. She was right, I could be anybody, and I often was, not because I wanted to be, but because I didn’t know who I was exactly, not yet. I tried on personas the way some people try on hats and it was a skill that served me well, although there was always a certain vulnerability behind my smile, a softness that was intrinsically me. I couldn’t hide it if I wanted to and that, I was told, was what made me extraordinary. To me, however, it made me… me. And I didn’t really know me very well, nor was I ready to do so. 

I never planned, not really, not any more. Growing up, I’d had no choice but to do that, always and as an adult I just… didn’t. I wasn’t sure what I was walking into that day, my planner had merely booked it as an editorial shoot. Nothing unusual. When I arrived, fresh faced and caffeinated, I thought I knew what was in store. I was wrong. It was an editorial but it was wholly unlike any I had done before. A tribute to Bettie Page, the other two models and I were made up in full Bettie regalia; Red lips, blunt bangs and all. And then I laid eyes on the props. Something in me stirred as my eyes scanned the rows of leather and metal, a shiver slipping down my spine and I was, for the first time in longer than I could remember, curious. The technical consultant on set that day was a quiet man, although his bearing fairly demanded attention and respect, both of which I gave in spades. 

After that, things changed yet again and I found myself selectively switching from traditional bookings to more… specific interests. I told myself I was simply dipping my toes in the water, just a tiny bit at first, testing the temperature before I dove in. It was only after I was in over my head that I remembered I never learned how to swim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Tori Amos's "Amber Waves"


	3. Sweet Dreams With Their Papercuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work, needles and questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not be updating this multiple times a day as time passes, but I have an instant gratification problem. Comments make me dance like a dork with my one crutch and questions are always welcome. Happy reading and thank you for your time.

I couldn’t help the hiss of pain that slipped between my teeth. Even though this routine was one that I had gone through several times a day for the last fifteen years, it never made it any easier. The slight burn as the fine needle pierced my skin always brought tears to my eyes. I hated needles, detested them. I didn’t even have my ears pierced because the idea of a needle not only touching me but actually going through an entire body part made me faint. Not exactly the best way to make an impression as a fifteen year old at Claire’s. 

My fingers moved out of habit, the violent shaking not so subtly letting me know that I had let things get out of hand again. It wasn’t intended, it never was. But one thing lead to another, a shoot ran over or craft services was late. It was a sad excuse, of course, but one that I still used. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I had convinced myself that if I could shift blame than everything was alright. That made about as much sense as a drunk person using the ability to count as a claim that they were sober. 

My thumb pushed down on the plunger, shaking so violently that I almost missed it. Shit. I didn’t have time for this, not right now. Outside of the tiny bathroom stall, just beyond the door were nearly a dozen people; a photographer, make up artist, props master and more just waiting to get started. A photo shoot was of very little use without the model. Getting my shit together should not be this hard. 

The slight burn eased and I let out a breath, swiping my skin lightly with an alcohol pad. Band-aids were useless and I knew it would only bleed for a minute. Now it just needed to work. Faster. Than. This. 

I could feel it already, deep in my gut. This was not going to go well. I just knew it. Unfolding my legs from where they had been tucked underneath me, I struggle to stand; the slick soles of my black patent boots slipping along the clean white tiles. I couldn’t make them stay upright. Alright, new tactic. Maybe I could crawl. Drawing my legs back, I fought the haze that was slowly taking over my vision and shook my hands, my extremities tingling. I could do this. I could. I was a grown woman, I just needed to get out of the bathroom, off the floor and back to work. 

The tile was cold under my palms as I rested them on the floor and I nearly fell over as I pushed myself onto my hands and knees. It was a position I was used to but everything was so heavy. My limbs, it seemed, were having listening and obedience issues, refusing to move in unison. 

I could feel the cold sweat break out on my face and my tongue felt swollen, heavy and rough as though it was coated with sandpaper and my throat was parched. Everything hurt, even my ears but I managed to move, finally, one small inch at a time. Patent leather does not cooperate well on a good day and today was absolutely not that. It had taken two assistants and copious amounts of baby powder to get me into this infernal contraption and I knew that the tile would scuff the slick surface, resulting in more buffing time and yet another delay. 

Normally, I loved my work. Like any job, it had it’s downfalls but they were minimal. Granted there were those who would find fault with what I did. Some seemed content with proselytizing the evils of pornography alongside a lecture on hellfire, damnation and what happened at Sodom and Gomorra. Others told me I was shameful, degrading to not only myself but women everywhere and others still that looked down on me in public, crossed the street when they saw me pass but obviously had seen my work enough to be able to recognize me without the makeup and leather. 

The thoughts swirled through my light head with each inch that I crawled, memories of names and flashes of faces that I could only see through a gossamer haze. I shook my head as though the action would dispel the thoughts but it only served to increase my dizziness and I fell over with a thud, my head cracking against the pristine pedestal of the sink as my vision went black and I gave way to the impending darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Amber Waves by Tori Amos


	4. Sweet Dreams With Their Papercuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work, needles and questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not be updating this often as time passes, but I have an instant gratification problem. Comments make me dance like a dork with my one crutch and questions are always welcome. Happy reading and thank you for your time.

*I couldn’t help the hiss of pain that slipped between my teeth. Even though this routine was one that I had gone through several times a day for the last fifteen years, it never made it any easier. The slight burn as the fine needle pierced my skin always brought tears to my eyes. I hated needles, detested them. I didn’t even have my ears pierced because the idea of a needle not only touching me but actually going through an entire body part made me faint. Not exactly the best way to make an impression as a fifteen year old at Claire’s. 

My fingers moved out of habit, the violent shaking not so subtly letting me know that I had let things get out of hand again. It wasn’t intended, it never was. But one thing lead to another, a shoot ran over or craft services was late. It was a sad excuse, of course, but one that I still used. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I had convinced myself that if I could shift blame than everything was alright. That made about as much sense as a drunk person using the ability to count as a claim that they were sober. 

My thumb pushed down on the plunger, shaking so violently that I almost missed it. Shit. I didn’t have time for this, not right now. Outside of the tiny bathroom stall, just beyond the door were nearly a dozen people; a photographer, make up artist, props master and more just waiting to get started. A photo shoot was of very little use without the model. Getting my shit together should not be this hard. 

The slight burn eased and I let out a breath, swiping my skin lightly with an alcohol pad. Band-aids were useless and I knew it would only bleed for a minute. Now it just needed to work. Faster. Than. This. 

I could feel it already, deep in my gut. This was not going to go well. I just knew it. Unfolding my legs from where they had been tucked underneath me, I struggle to stand; the slick soles of my black patent boots slipping along the clean white tiles. I couldn’t make them stay upright. Alright, new tactic. Maybe I could crawl. Drawing my legs back, I fought the haze that was slowly taking over my vision and shook my hands, my extremities tingling. I could do this. I could. I was a grown woman, I just needed to get out of the bathroom, off the floor and back to work. 

The tile was cold under my palms as I rested them on the floor and I nearly fell over as I pushed myself onto my hands and knees. It was a position I was used to but everything was so heavy. My limbs, it seemed, were having listening and obedience issues, refusing to move in unison. 

I could feel the cold sweat break out on my face and my tongue felt swollen, heavy and rough as though it was coated with sandpaper and my throat was parched. Everything hurt, even my ears but I managed to move, finally, one small inch at a time. Patent leather does not cooperate well on a good day and today was absolutely not that. It had taken two assistants and copious amounts of baby powder to get me into this infernal contraption and I knew that the tile would scuff the slick surface, resulting in more buffing time and yet another delay. 

Normally, I loved my work. Like any job, it had it’s downfalls but they were minimal. Granted there were those who would find fault with what I did. Some seemed content with proselytizing the evils of pornography alongside a lecture on hellfire, damnation and what happened at Sodom and Gomorra. Others told me I was shameful, degrading to not only myself but women everywhere and others still that looked down on me in public, crossed the street when they saw me pass but obviously had seen my work enough to be able to recognize me without the makeup and leather. 

The thoughts swirled through my light head with each inch that I crawled, memories of names and flashes of faces that I could only see through a gossamer haze. I shook my head as though the action would dispel the thoughts but it only served to increase my dizziness and I fell over with a thud, my head cracking against the pristine pedestal of the sink as my vision went black and I gave way to the impending darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Amber Waves by Tori Amos


	5. Words Like Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Answers, scars and broken glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't seem to not update, I know that it makes Flames_And_Jade happy which brings me joy. Here is the next installment of this little tale. Warnings for blood, broken glass and the story of some scars. As always, comments and kudos make me flail ridiculously and questions are always welcome. Happy reading and thank you!

’What the fuck did she take? Jesus Christ this is not what we need today.’ 

I could hear the voice but it sounded muffled and distant, almost as if I was underwater. The slaps to my cheek were gentle but firm and I wanted to reply, I did but I couldn’t seem to get the words out. I tried to move but my limbs were uncooperative, to say the least, and even the effort exhausted me. I felt the pain though, a dull ache in the back of my head which may or may not have something to do with the ether-like haze that sent me spinning. Even my eyelids were heavy. But I could feel, I still had that capacity and feel I did. The cold tile against the small patches of bare skin, warmth pooling under my hands, hot and sticky, and the blissful burn that caused the mess in itself. 

‘Grace. Gracie. Open those eyes darlin’ and tell me what the fuck you took.’ The voice was familiar and I tried to answer, I did I just… couldn’t make the words work. They were jumbled and faint no matter how much I wanted them to be otherwise. I could see him, just a bit although he was so blurry. The concern was written on Nick’s face and worry dripped from his voice. We had grown close over the last year, very much so, and even in my semi-conscious state it stung to think he didn’t know me. Then again, when you break down a bathroom door and find a patent-leather clad woman lying on the floor unconscious and bleeding with a syringe nearby, especially in this business, drugs were an obvious choice. And technically, I had taken something but not for any mind altering purposes.   
‘Nick the goddamn medics are here, I’m not going down for this bitch.’ Sara, kind as ever, was shouting from the studio, her voice even more braying and donkey-like than usual. She may have grated on my nerves, but she was one of the best hairstylists in the city. I could hear wheels on the floor, the heavy clomp of duty boots on the floor as more people flooded into the tiny room. Nick vanished from my line of sight, replaced by stark black leather and navy fabric. 

They were gentle, which was a small saving grace, as it were, as they checked vitals and wrapped gauze around my bleeding wrist amidst the haze of chaos and voices all fighting for dominance and echoing in the small space. ‘Someone just tell me what she uses.’ There was no kindness left in the paramedic’s voice and I could not blame him for a moment. In a city like Vegas and a profession like his, I am certain that he didn’t get to see the good side of people very often. I needed to tell them, had to get the words out somehow. Closing my eyes, I focused all of the energy I had in me on a single word. I could taste it, feel it bouncing from my brain down to roll over my tongue. It was sweet, sickly so, like honey on a hot day, and seemed to stick behind my clenched teeth. I needed to get it out, I had to or things would get much, much worse, god knows they had before. One word. Three syllables. It shouldn’t have been this hard. I felt the stick of a needle in my arm and flinched, my body jerking. I needed to speak, I had to. My vision started to blur again and I saw the prettiest pink stars swirling at the edges of my sight. No, no, no. One word. Just one. I focused my drastically limited attention on simply opening my mouth and finally, finally forced it out moments before slipping back into unconsciousness and I could hear the whisper echoing like a gunshot in my head. "Insulin."

I blinked back the memory as I pushed myself up off the floor where I tended to sit. It was more comfortable for me than a chair or couch, whether that was a learned preference or simply habit, I did not know. Even after nearly five years it was one of those moments that felt like it was just yesterday, mixed in with a handful of others, none of which were very good. My head throbbed and I could feel a migraine forming behind my eyes as I finished my Diet Coke, setting the glass in the empty sink, the thin bracelet on my wrist a constant reminder to not only myself but any others that should need to know that there was something not quite right. It was slender and lovely, custom made, with celtic scrollwork etched deeply into the silver and a small lacquered red cross standing out bright as a beacon. Diabetic. The word was in delicate script, bold enough to stand out but not enough that it was obnoxious. It almost made me laugh how much one person’s life, their needs, could be distilled down to one word that was arbitrarily assigned to them by some twist of fate, a quirk of genetics that left me with a fear of needles and a keen understanding of even minute changes in my body. What went in, what came out.. I catalogued it all, feeling even the slightest change in myself. It was a learned behavior, as much as it could be anyway, for a survival mechanism. 

I let my fingers brush over the cool metal, my nails ghosting just lightly over the scar that it covered. It wasn’t a bad one, not at all; thin and silvery white, like so many others that covered my body, but different, more jagged; the edges torn by glass instead of the sharp edge of a knife. Most of them were there by choice, and each one had a story, a memory attached that inevitably brought a smile to my lips, each different and truly a lasting imprint of a moment in time; an event that in it’s own way changed me for the better, brought me to where I was. I slipped off my silk robe and stood naked in the cold air, my gaze fixed on the image in the mirror before me. Gold streaked hair tumbled in riotous waves covering bare breasts that were still firm and high, and draping in front of silver frames of my glasses. My waist was nipped in before the gentle curve of my hips and my legs were long and muscular, even barefoot. I took good care of myself, took pride in who I was and what I had and it showed. Beyond that, beyond the physical attributes that I had for so long used in my favor, was my real story, the tale of who I was and how I came to be here. Some people spoke their stories, they screamed from the mountain tops to all who would listen. Who they were was evident in how they looked; a jauntily tipped hat, loud hawaiian shirt or layers of pink ruffles. They wore their individualities like a shield, showing the world who they were with each step they took. My story, well, that was different. I wasn’t ostentatious, preferring neutral colors in soft shapes as much as I could, but my story was just as easily read if you knew where to look. It was just below the surface, beneath the layers of soft cashmere and silk that formed my own personal armor. My story was written in lines and curves across my skin, the thin silvery lines trailing back and forth like a map of my soul written out on the canvas of my body. They were all the same and yet so different at the same time. Scars were our bodies way of telling where we had been, of laying the framework for where it was that we would go. If you knew how to read them right, someone’s body could speak louder than the shrillest of screams. Fingers could trace over the lines and read my story, know who I was without ever saying a single word. I respected them, my scars, and I had them by choice. Each one brought me not a tale but a moment of bliss, pure and unrestrained, tinged with a searing heat that brought with it unimaginable pleasure, in more than just the physical form. With a small sigh, I let my fingers trail absently over my skin, feeling the memories that lay there before turning away from my reflection. I could see the small smile just before I looked away and it gave me pause and hope, not only for the day ahead, but for those I had left behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'Enjoy The Silence' by Depeche Mode. Give Tori Amos's cover a listen, you won't regret it.


	6. Fated To Be Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiny things and hidden tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Another update because I have a problem. I blame Flames_And_Jade for that. And by blame, I mean thank. Nothing overly heavy here, I don't think. Comments, kudos and questions make me dance like a fool. Thank y'all for taking the time to read, it means more than I can say. Happy reading!

The studio was sparse. Lighting and screens set up in one end of the deserted warehouse, racks of clothes and shoes in another, flanked by vanity tables littered with bottles, creams, tubes and brushes of every kind. The air smelled hot and chemical thanks in no small part to the styling tools and sprays that were being used in abundance. I sat perched naked on a canvas directors chair while a trio of small, beautifully flamboyant men pulled and twisted my hair, wrapped a measuring tape and brushed make up not only over my skin but down my arms and legs as well. It was cold but I didn’t shiver, I couldn’t despite the fact that I was naked as the day I was born. My body was stiff from sitting too long and I shifted just a bit in my chair, as a final coat of sparkling red lacquer was slicked across my nails, both fingers and toes. It matched the gloss that was on my lips perfectly, no doubt, as I had watched Brian mix it by hand. The sizzle of hairspray on hot iron was a bit close to my ear for my tastes and I was more than happy when I felt the uncomfortable warmth move away from my delicate skin. There wasn’t much that scared me, not truly, but needles and being burned… they were on that list and I avoided both as often as I could. 

The music that blasted from the soundsystem was loud and heavy, the screamed lyrics providing a small measure of comfort in this otherwise unknown place. I had been here before, so many times, but at the same time it was new; different. The names and faces were always a blur, one fading into another as the day went on thanks to the dull ache that seemed near constant behind my eyes. Weather it was the lighting or something else, I could never shake it. ‘There you go pretty, you look exquisite now go to wardrobe.’ The small man’s words held a hint of an accent although I couldn’t place it, not entirely and I gave him a bright smile as I hopped down from my perch. Catching sight of myself in the mirror I paused and simply stared for a moment. It was me, I could tell but everything was so exaggerated it was almost like looking at someone else. My dark hair hung down my back in perfectly deconstructed, just been fucked waves and my face, thanks to the magic of makeup, was filled with shadows and light in just the right places, emphasizing and downplaying features with a stroke of a brush. Even with my slightly blurry vision, I could make out my lips and eyes, red as blood and black as night against pale, poreless skin. I was like a photo negative of myself which was fairly ironic. ‘Gracie girl, get your pretty ass over here.’ The voice pulled me out of my reverie and I crossed the large space, uncaring of the sets of eyes that followed my movement. It wasn’t me they were looking at, that they were seeing, it was some construction of me. Similar features but longer hair, as the song went.

The stylist was a petite woman, greying hair pulled tightly back into a bun. Miss Mimi, if my memory served. She was the best in the business and that was saying something. One scathing glance, head to toe, a slow walk around me and she knew my size, measurements down to a half an inch. That had been months ago and she still remembered them. A quick appraisal, steely silver eyes trailing over me and she turned on impossibly small feet towards the clothing racks that compromised her domain. I couldn’t quite see what she was doing, not clearly, but I heard the scrape of hangers on metal; the click of heels and she was back in a heartbeat. The hangers were cool in my hands as I accepted them, startling slightly as Miss Mimi’s warm hand clasped my wrist, her gaze drawn to the scars on my wrist, still jagged and pink.  
‘You didn’t mean for this, did you Mija?’ The endearment nearly brought tears to my eyes and I shook my head as I struggled to find my voice.  
‘No, Miss Mimi, I didn’t. I fell and my insulin vial shattered.’ My voice was quiet although there was no one around to hear me. I still talked about my disease in whispers even though it was far from taboo, especially among this set. The tiny woman’s eyes softened a bit and she lowered her head, whether in understanding or sympathy I was not sure.  
‘You stay right here, Mija. I’ll be back. Get changed.’ I didn’t argue, quite frankly the woman scared me, and instead did as I was told, stepping carefully into black lace and silk, the fabrics cool and light on already chilled skin. They were simple, classic even but they were not the reason for today’s shoot, simply set dressing. The shoes, however, were. They were breathtakingly beautiful, black satin straps with a bright red sole and slim silver heel, a jeweled snake with twinkling red eyes curling easily up the back to rest by my ankle. They were dangerous, no doubt, as most things of such exquisite beauty were. 

Miss Mimi moved silently, slipping up behind me without so much as a sound and, once again taking my hand in hers. It was different this time, however, in addition to her warm skin there was something cool and slick clasped around my wrist with a soft click. I thought for just a moment it was a pair of handcuffs but that shoot wasn’t scheduled until next week. Dropping my eyes I let my gaze rest for an instant on the bracelet, the delicate swirling scrollwork and simple red jeweled cross, there was writing, an elegant script that I couldn’t even begin to make out as well. Opening my mouth to speak, I immediately clamped it shut when Miss Mimi spoke, her voice softer than I ever heart it.  
‘It was my daughter’s, she… she has no need for it anymore. She had eyes like yours. You keep it, Mija, take good care.’ With that she was gone, vanished back into her domain of silver clothing racks and shoes without so much as a look back. I watched her for a moment, wondering, yearning to know more of her story even as my fingers trailed across the cool metal against my wrist.  
‘Grace! We’re ready for you!’ I didn’t have time to think about it before straightening my spine and heading over towards the section of chain link fence that would serve as backdrop and prop all in one.  
‘Gracie, sweetie, you look gorgeous as always. Now against the fence, back to me and legs apart.’ I was a good mannequin, obedient to no end and it served me well even as I cleared my head and wove my fingers between the links of the fence, clearing my head of any thought and allowing the music to wash over me as I followed instruction after instruction, the bright lights of the flash not even registering as I focused on my work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'Monster Side' by Addict.


	7. Every Star Fall Brought You To Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stars and scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here is some more. As always, this is unbetaed so all mustakes are my own. I brought them from home. Happily dedicated to Flames_And_Jade for her endless support and cheerleading and DEMANDS that I post the thing. Comments and kudos make me flail like a fucking flaily thing and will always be addressed with awe and admiration, as will questions. This is a pretty heavy chapter, but one that is pretty necessary. Thank you for reading! Title taken from 'Helena' By My Chemical Romance,,specifically the rooftop acoustic version. I suggest you listen to it while reading. On repeat. AND PREPARE TO CRY. (I know, title info usually goes at the end but MUSIC IS IMPORTANT)

When I was a child, before Faith, Hope, Chastity and Angel; before schizophrenia took hold of my mother and catapulted her into a world of fear and delusion; before I slipped down the proverbial rabbit hole into the beautiful wonderland that I called home, I would lay on my back and watch the stars at night. The town we lived in was so small that there wasn’t any residual light clouding the view, just the inky blackness. I would lay on my back in the yard, beside the old oak tree that had a swing hanging from one of it’s ancient branches, the comforter from the second twin bed below me as I stared up into the sky. I was hypnotized from an incredibly young age by the stars and wondered in the way that only children can how they got there and why I couldn’t touch them. I knew the main constellations in the northern hemisphere before I started first grade. My mother; at that time still so vibrant and almost radiating life and beauty, would lay beside me, her sweet voice ringing in the night, the only other sound being the crickets singing their songs. She would point each star out to me and tell me stories, tales older than time about how they came to be; how animals were tossed in the sky, of heroes and danger. They captivated me and I would watch, enthralled until my eyelids drooped and I lost the battle to sleep. I never remembered actually going inside, but somehow I always woke up in my bed, safe and warm, until one night I didn’t. That was the night that everything started to fall apart; when hope was figuratively and literally lost. I was six years old and had fallen asleep beside my mother on the comforter as I had done so many times before listening to stories I could have recited from memory even at that tender age. But I didn’t wake up in my bed, not that night. Instead, I woke up shivering and covered in dew, the blanket beneath me wet and cold, the sky just starting to shine with the golden sun as it peeked over the horizon. The stars were long gone although the sky above was still a dusky, smoky lavender. I was alone for what would be the first time but nowhere close to the last. 

The upheaval of life after that, the tiny lives that had been snuffed out before they could even begin, the drastic mood swings and walking on eggshells were so, so difficult to understand, especially after I got sick. Children aren’t supposed to know about needles and correct dosages; they shouldn’t be afraid to drop a glass or go outside because what if it upset mommy? Life changed seemingly from day to day, sometimes jumping from the highest of highs to the seeming depths of despair depending on the day, month, year or the way the wind blew. That was one of the many challenges of such a serious mental illness; there was no consistency no telling how it was going to progress or manifest this time. The only constants seemed to be needles, questions and the stars. The stars never failed me. Even when I couldn’t see them, I knew that they were there, up above, shining despite being already dead. When things were at their worst, right after Angel, I would hide in that swing on the oak tree, my lanky form tucked up tiny, head peeking out from under one arm, only enough so I could see out from under the blanket that compromised my makeshift fort and watch the stars. I tried to count them more than once and kept giving up but never because I was frustrated. Somehow trying to quantify something so beautiful so expansive was just… futile. They weren’t meant to be counted and tabulated, it seemed almost an affront to their very nature. Instead they were just meant to be enjoyed and taken in for what they were; something beautiful and delicate seeming but that same beauty could, and did, destroy if you got too close. 

Those nights outside, among the fresh cut grass with a sweet summer breeze blowing imbued the stars with an almost magical quality for me that lasted my entire life. The first time I saw a falling star streak across the sky, I wept, tears falling freely down my cheeks. I didn’t understand at the time and had, in my tender years, convinced myself that the star was going to get hurt when it landed. How little I knew. 

Even now, two decades later, I still looked to the stars for comfort, that constant that I craved, that reminder of what once was and those sweet, fleeting moments of normalcy before the world imploded. My life now had it’s own trials; so very different from the ones I had known, but at the same time so similar. The needles, my one fear, were still a part of my life and one that I would never be able to escape. But the terror and uncertainty of my childhood; that fear, the unknown had been replaced, finally, by acceptance and trust, both given and received. It was written in delicate, pale lines on my skin, some connecting freckles, to form constellations of their own; others singular and serving as reminders of moments in time, exquisite in their simplicity and yet amazingly complex at the same time. A map of a life rendered in the most beautiful pleasure and pain. 

The stars though, that one thing that had never seemed to change was suddenly different. In Vegas, it was always daylight, even when it shouldn’t have been. The lights of the city made the stars not only unnecessary but almost unneeded. In Vegas you could find anything you wanted indoors even the night sky, although it wasn’t the same. On those nights when I needed that familiarity, the comfort of those simple memories, nights like tonight, I headed out to the desert. 

It was chilly in the desert despite the summer heat, the air cooling rapidly once the sun went down, and I wrapped my light cardigan tightly around my shoulders as I headed out to the familiar clearing not to far off the highway. My head ached and I squinted slightly behind my ever present glasses. I cursed the bright lights of the city as tucked my car keys tucked in my pocket and grasped a soft blanket tightly in my hand. 

I knew this stretch of land well and it was only a matter of a few steps until I reached my destination. The sky above was an inky black, the residual lights of the city long since left behind me and I could feel a smile pull at my lips as I flipped the blanket up, letting it catch on the gentle breeze before laying it down on the hard ground. I sat quickly, the faintest trace of radiant heat from the day soaking through to my legs and pulled my ponytail out, pulling my hands through my hair before I lay back with my eyes closed. The anticipation, that small buzz of excitement in my belly, the simple ritual of it all, had always been the same as long as I could remember and I cherished it more than I could express. Eyes still closed, I slipped off my glasses, hanging them carefully on the thin chain around my neck, my fingers easily finding the simple golden band that hung there and sliding the delicate wire through to hang between my breasts. A last deep breath and I could almost hear my mother’s voice, faded by time but still as sweet as it once was, in the back of my mind, a mere whisper although one infused with excitement and joy that had so quickly vanished. ‘On three, Gracie, one… two… three!’ My cheeks ached, my smile almost painful from both memories and excitement as though I was going to meet an old friend again. I opened my eyes the same way I always did, my gaze directed instantly upwards to the sky, and was suddenly seized with emotion. It wasn’t the joy that I had anticipated, that indescribable lightness that came with the familiar simple pleasure. Not even close. In it’s place was terror, fear unlike anything I had ever known. It took me a moment to register what was happening as a shiver raced down my spine and I lay still, frozen in place as I stared up at the inky black sky. I couldn’t see the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much to say here, but thank you so much for sticking with me through all the ridiculous, I hope you all enjoy.


	8. It Takes An Ocean Not To Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confirmations and reflections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. Welcome back, thank you for coming. So, for starters, this is filled with wild speculation based on research and I have taken some very free liberties with the diagnosis here. If I have made any egregious errors, fwwl free to let me know. Also, this is still unbetaed so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. I hope you are all enjoying this little tale of mine as I spin it. Eventually it might make more sense, or at least the pieces will start to fit. Questions, comments and kudos make me happy dance if you hace the time. If not, that is cool too. As always, thank you to Flames_And_Jade for being amazing and uber encouraging with my myriad of insecurities and incessant bothering. You are the best. Happy reading!

It was funny, really, how little we think of something until it starts to slip away. It doesn’t matter what it is; a bag of your favorite cookies, a perfectly worn in pair of sneakers, a pillow that you have used so long that it is just so and perfect. Things that, under normal circumstances, it would be so easy to think would always be there. And then one day, they aren’t. It can be slow, gradual; the crack in the rubber on a shoe gets bigger and bigger; the pillow doesn’t have enough support no matter how many times you flip it; the cookie packages start disappearing from shelves. These losses, in the scheme of things, are all replaceable. It might not exactly be the same, but time will pass and you can adapt that to what you need. It’s one of the beautiful things about being human. There is always a chance to repair what has been broken; to replace what has been lost. Until there isn’t.  
I was foolish, ignoring the signs that I had been searching for my entire life and I was paying for it now. The room was cold and dark, the ever present throbbing in my temples reminding me of it as each beat of my heart sent blood rushing through my veins, the sound seeming to roar in my ears. I could hear the mechanical hum of the machines; the muffled, hurried footsteps of people in the hallway; the shuffle of charts being dropped into slots on the doors. And beneath all of that; quieter than the hum of machines, softer than the hushed conversations that I could hear through the wall; I could hear the steady, rhythmic dripping of water splashing, drip by drip, onto imitation leather.  
I had walked out of the club this morning filled with a false sense of confidence. This wasn’t really happening, it couldn’t be. I had followed all of the rules; done every test, taken every injection. I had peed on sticks, counted everything that went in and out of my body, pricked my fingers until I couldn’t feel them. I kept stashes of lemon drops in my bag, and glass bottles of Mexican Coke in the lounge fridge. I calculated, added, divided, I didn’t do anything without weighing the risks, ever. And I did it all to avoid this. I’d been up most of the night, bargaining, reasoning and pleading with a deity that I had not believed in for over two decades that this wasn’t what it seemed. Denial, as I recall, was one of the stages of grief and one that I had been really great at for the last few weeks.  
It was just as futile as I had thought I would be. I hadn’t needed the doctor to confirm it but there was something about that white coat and the fancy framed degrees that seemed to somehow soften even the worst news, or at least we somehow convinced ourselves. And this… this was not the worst news, there was so much more that could be wrong. I was lucky, in a sense, and I was not foolish enough not to realize that.  
I had never really been one for self pity but as I sat in this dark room, my head pounding and cheeks wet with rapidly drying tears, I indulged, for just a moment. My life, at least certain parts of it anyway, was about to change and not for the better. This was nothing that I couldn’t adapt to; nothing that I wouldn’t be able to live with, but it was certainly not something I would be celebrating. I would accept it, of course, I was far too practical not to do so. There was no longer any point in denying, or hoping that anything would be the same again. It wouldn’t. A part of me had long ago accepted that. On the day that I had handed over the keys to a small empty house and followed the sunset as it turned first soft lavender, then dusty plum and finally, perfectly, to the inky black of night, I had accepted that things as I knew it would be different. I had been so young then, not naive in any sense simply… young. At seventeen I had experienced more than most of my peers would, and now, a decade and a half later, I’d done more than most of the people in my tiny hometown would have dreamed of doing in their entire life. I’d traveled the world, been to all seven continents at some point. I had wandered aimlessly along the banks of the Seine for hours, eaten pasta and gelato in Italy and talked to penguins in Antarctica. My face had been splashed across news stands, smiling coyly from glossy pages of editorials at first and then, later, well… that had changed. I’d been up and down, to say the least, rich and poor. The former of both were preferable but you can’t appreciate the good things until you know the bad. Only when it was dark enough can you see the stars. The irony of the phrase had me laughing to myself, the sound not bitter but quite jaded, and it seemed to echo off the walls. This was ridiculous. Sitting up straight, I tossed my hair back off my shoulder and wiped the heels of my hands across my cheeks, brushing away the few stray traces of tears that may have lingered. The stainless bracelet on my wrist was cold against my skin and I fought a shiver at the delicate touch of metal as I stood and rummaged through my purse on the nearby counter. The box was easy to find and I carefully slid my sunglasses on before heading out of the exam room and down the short hall towards the doors.  
Stepping out into the melee that characterized the Vegas strip, I adjusted my sunglasses, pushing them back on my nose. It was fairly laughable, wearing them at all, but my eyes, ineffectual as they were at this point, were still sensitive to the light and the sun, as always, beat down unrelentingly from the sky.  
I had been making this trip for years, at this point it was almost instinctual which was probably a very good thing. I counted the steps silently in my head, staying towards the inside of the sidewalk simply out of habit, as I headed back towards the club. It was exactly 3879 steps from the glass door of the optometrists office to the club and when I finally stopped on that final step, I rested my hand on them for a moment, relishing the slick lacquer and the heat that radiated from the sun warmed wood. The warmth alone quickly conjured mental images of the enticing color behind my closed lids, the memories so clear that they seemed like just yesterday. I dropped my hand with a sad smile and opened my eyes behind the dark lenses of my sunglasses. I couldn’t see the color anymore, that red that I loved so dearly, the color that was so inextricably linked to what was truly the only real home and safe place that I had ever known. Slipping my key card easily through the lock, I listened for the click and pulled opened the door as I slipped inside.  
It was dark and cold, but in the best of ways, inside the lobby and I paused for a moment to simply take in my surroundings as I gathered my bearings. I could hear the rhythmic, almost musical click of the receptionists nails against her desk and I gave a small, fairly half hearted smile in her direction as I slid my sunglasses up on my head and headed down the familiar, twisting halls towards my room, my fingers trailing lightly along the hall with each step. It was a small detail, and one that I had started doing unconsciously ages ago, although I was thankful for it now.  
My doorknob was cold and solid under my hand and I carefully slipped the key into the lock, twisting them both and ducking quickly inside. It was quiet here, peaceful, the hum of the air conditioner and whir of the ceiling fan going far to soothe my slightly frazzled nerves from my trip. I wasted no time in stripping; delicate, gauzy garments in soft colors falling behind me in a trail on the floor as I stretched out on my bed, the soft rustle of the down comforter and mattress cradling me like a lover.  
My hands wandered over my body, the skin warm beneath my cold fingertips. There was nothing sensual about the movement, rather the opposite, in this case. It was merely for comfort, familiarity, safety. As my fingers slid over the ridges and scars that covered my skin, I could see them again. I knew each one; every mark; who made it, the blade used, the scene that had brought it. My story, my real story, who I was, was written on my skin, in fine lines that crisscrossed the planes of muscle and curves of bone. Each one told a tale; formed a part of me, one that spoke louder than any words ever could. It had been far too long since I had added a new chapter and I could feel that familiar ache, that need beginning, one that had been building for weeks, ever since that first night in the desert when I had looked upward and saw nothing. Retrieving the recently installed landline from my nightstand, I dialed the familiar number from memory and relaxed, eyes closing as I waited for the familiar voice on the other end of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from 'Terrible Love' by The National


	9. Thunder Chasing The Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storms and scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more of this twisty little tale. This chapter does contain refrences to consensual knife play so if that isn't your cup of tea, you nay want to skip this part. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this rambling little tale, even with all of it's inaccuracies and wild artistic license. I really, really hope you all enjoy. Comments and kudos make me the happiest camper EVER, and questions about anything are more than welcome. 
> 
> Happy reading, y'all!

"Damnit." The whispered curse echoed around my room just seconds after the sound of plastic and pills hitting hardwood and scattering. This was the last thing I needed today. Bracing one hand on my bureau, I lowered myself to my hands and knees, feeling across the floor for the capsules that were the single thing that could bring relief from the blinding pain that threatened to split my head in two. Pun intended. My fingers brushed against a pill and I sat up, my ass resting on my heels, and popped it in my mouth to swallow it dry. Probably not the best idea but I didn’t have the energy to go to the lounge for a bottle of water at the moment and it wasn’t time for another Diet Coke. 

Making my way on all fours back to my bed, I pushed myself up and sprawled out on the unbelievably soft surface, staring blankly up at the ceiling behind my sunglasses. It was futile, of course, as I couldn’t really see anything anyway. That didn’t, of course, mean that it wasn’t there. I knew that it was. Even now I could tell you exactly where everything in my room was, right down to the order of the clothes hanging meticulously in the closet. I had to know or I would fall to pieces and that couldn’t happen. 

The rain drummed away at the window accompanying the whipping wind and deafening thunder seemed to calm the thoughts that seemed to be constantly swirling in my head, even when the only thing in the world I wanted was for them to stop. I knew, of course, how to do exactly that. The call had already been placed and a message left for Mr. Chase on his voicemail. It had been far too long since I had felt the beautiful sting of a blade on my skin, and the euphoria and eerie calm that it brought. I’d not scened with anyone in any way since my vision had started to go, for a myriad of reasons. There was a time in my life, what seemed like eons ago now, that I had been less particular with whom I trusted. I was fairly new to the lifestyle and the combination of my profession at the time, with all of the nuances and expectations that came with it, and my eagerness to learn everything I could led to some rather questionable decisions, many of which had gone straight to video for all eternity. I still had no regrets for any of it, not even a moment, and the memories were emblazoned on my skin.They crossed over my body in a pale, raised network of lines that were littered with memories. I could still describe each one; who made it and when. Some people kept their mementos in a box under their bed or an album; I kept mine written on my skin where I could revisit them whenever I wanted. Maybe some part of me had known, even then, the inevitability of what was to come in time. 

My headache was finally taming to a dull throb and I slipped my seemingly ever-present sunglasses of and rested them carefully on the nightstand. The light was off, as was usual. It was one of those things that I had little use for anymore although sometimes I flicked it on simply to hear the low hum from the bulb. Simple pleasures. Since finding my place in this world that I currently inhabited, I had become rather particular about who touched me. Now some scenes, I was willing to run with anyone, as long as they were trained and, in some occasions, training. As long as Mr. Sampson had cleared them, I knew I was safe, in every sense of the word. When it came to knives, however, I was a bit more cautious. In the wrong hands a blade could cause not only harm but death and, as many chances as I took, that was one I was not willing to try, not now and not ever.  
Fortunately, it wasn’t something I needed to worry about anymore. Mr. Chase was, without a doubt, one of the best that I had ever had the pleasure of working with. The man used his blade in the same way an artist wielded a brush and it was an honor not only to see but to be able to be a part of. I could feel the anticipation racing over the map that was drawn across my skin, almost as though they were singing. It was a strange feeling, unlike anything I could or would logically explain, but it was as apt. 

The storm outside had reached a stunning crescendo and I could hear the explosion and sizzle as lightning struck somewhere near by. It was not an unknown one to me, having happened more times than I could count as a child, and I yearned, for the first time since my world had turned upside down, to see what had happened. That, of course, was impossible, unless somehow I could magically see more than just dark shapes and negative space, as it were.  
The next best thing would have to do. Standing, I rise from my bed and give my fuzzy sweater a tug, pulling it over my head and tossing it aside as my hair fell gently down my back, tickling the skin that was left exposed outside of my silk tank. I crossed to the window easily, counting the steps in my head more out of habit than necessity at this point and pushed it up. 

The sounds of the city were dulled by the ferocity of the storm and the rain, that clean, crisp and almost indescribable scent almost overwhelmed me as I stuck my head out the window, tilting my head up to the sky. Heavy, cold raindrops splattered down against my cheeks, plastering hair that had been caught by the wind down against them and I didn’t bother to hide my smile as the storm raged on overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Lightening Crashes by Live


	10. Little Darling Welcome To The Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions and trips down the rabbit hole...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a flashback, I suppose, as I am prone to randomly inserting them all willy-nilly. Sorry. This chapter also brings us to how Grace got to where she is at this point in time. No real warnings, I don't think... 
> 
> As always, comments, kudos and questions bring me joy. Thank you all so much for reading.

The studio was cold, although that was far from a surprise; they always were. The fact that I was wearing little more than a dishtowel at the moment may have contributed to that fact as well. There were still moments where I wondered how, exactly I ended up here. And by here, I did not mean Vegas. That route had been a labyrinthine, Lolita-esque journey across the country ending in the City Of Lights. Here as in physically sitting in a studio with two people curling my hair, a third painting my face and yet another brushing cold and thick Ben Nye over any imperfections that may have marred my skin. The only spot not covered was the scar on my wrist, although it was still angrily red and tender to the touch, a constant reminder of how easy it was to slip. It wasn’t my skills as a mannequin, there was nothing particularly exceptional about how I stood. I was far from the most beautiful woman to choose from; Vegas, as well as New York and L.A, were veritable meccas for beauty. Everywhere you looked, there was someone more beautiful, more striking, more… everything. And yet, somehow, I maintained my own little level of...well, I don’t know if fame was the right word, there was certainly no one back home clipping my photoshoots from the magazines and hanging them on the fridge. Well, maybe there was, but if so it was not because they were proud. Then again, for someone to be able to do that, there would need to be someone home. And while there technically was, I don’t know if a cemetary really had a place for pictures. 

This world, while it was one I had never intentionally sought out, was still one that I was proud of. Many people didn’t understand it. Hell, I’d had more than one religious pamphlet slipped under my door over the last year. I never hid my face, it wasn’t worth it. Why should I when there wasn’t any shame in what I did. People’s perceptions were what carried shame. Now if I went to church, it may be a touchy subject to explain to a priest. Then again, if a priest asked me directly about why I did what I did, well, I wasn’t the only one who had some questions to answer. And answer them I did. While most of my job was simply posing, on occasion I got asked questions, all of which I answered to the best of my ability. My story wasn’t all that compelling, not really, and the fact that anyone actually wanted to know it still surprised me, and that was not an easy feat. 

To shock a woman who had been photographed, voluntarily, doing things that most people only thought of was no small undertaking, but it did happen on occasion. Not, however, in the ways many would assume. It wasn’t the confessional letters I received, nor the people that stopped me on the street. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” I heard it often, and sometimes from the people that you would least expect. It’s always the quiet ones, or so they said. I was raised right, and had learned to read people reasonably well over my time in this industry and once my booking started leaning towards the more conventionally taboo side of the scales, I got even better at it. The answer to that question depended on who was asking it, although I never lied. There was not a lot that I wouldn’t do, including things that made certain groups of people ask God to save me. Well, unfortunately, I didn’t believe in him, not anymore, so all the prayers in the world for my wretched soul wouldn’t help. I would never, however, lie. I may not be entirely forthcoming, but when one half of a clearly married and khaki and polo wearing couple asks that certain question, sometimes stating that I make my living naked and in front of a camera is not always the most tactful answer and can cause far more harm than can be known in the moment. 

I never faulted people for recognizing me, never judged them, it wasn’t my place. My body was usually focused on more than my face, as was sometimes the case, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t seen. Honestly, I felt more exposed when I was doing conventional modeling than I did once I started working for the Kink and BDSM publications that now made up the majority of my sessions. Being exposed wasn’t a matter of simply being naked, and the two were very different things indeed. When I first started in this business, I was a piece of meat, and I knew that. I had no disillusions about how it worked. Older than many of my fellow mannequins, in more than just the chronological sense, I wasn’t harboring any ideas of fame, fortune and glamour; it was simply a means to an end. What I wasn’t prepared for, however, was how cruel people could be. I hadn’t expected kindness, but the barrage of insults and criticisms on everything from weight to how messy my ponytail was grew heavy, and quick. Backhanded insults disguised as compliments were dished out as casually as most people talked about the weather. At least in my current bookings, there was honesty and trust. There had to be or it wouldn’t work, on any level. That was the core of the community, from what I had learned. I was far from an expert, learning only pieces here and there from shoots, but there was enough for me to wonder and it was difficult to pique my curiosity. Now not everyone shared my sensibilities, and that was absolutely fine with me. It was when people used their own fear and prejudice to try and make others feel less than them, or defend truly reprehensible actions in the name of religion that I began to take offence. I had seen the damage that people inflicted in the name of what was right, with disastrous and heart-wrenching consequences. And that wasn’t even beginning to touch the letters filled with hellfire and brimstone that I received. “Grace, they’re ready for you in wardrobe.” The sweet voice cut through my thoughts and I shook them away, giving the kind PA a smile.* Thank you Kiernan. And thank you all as well. * I had been looked at like I had two heads the first time I had thanked a make-up artist, to say nothing of the hair stylist and manicurist. Why, I still did not know, but in my world it was considered simple manners, and I was raised by a delusional schizophrenic. It should have been common sense but, like so many things in this industry, it wasn’t. Then again, that had been in my more traditional days. Now that I was more at home, not only with myself, but with the people that surrounded me and the atmosphere that they created, it was second nature but in some aspects this was an entirely different business. 

Leaving my robe on the makeup chair, I headed naked towards the leather, laces and shoes that made up the wardrobe department. My ensemble for the evening consisted of a pair of black stilettos, a coat of red lipstick and not a stitch more save for the colorful ropes that would be wrapped with a practiced hand. While the scenario was not a new one, my partner for the shoot today was and I’d seen neither hide nor hare of him yet. Taking my position beneath the lights, I was thankful for their warmth, a pleasant contrast to the chilled air. The music switched over, the gentle sounds that seemed to be favored by the prep team replaced with something harder, dirtier and more raw. My solitude, as it would turn out, was to be short lived. There were very few people who could affect me simply by their presence but when this man stepped onto the set I could feel a palpable change in the air around me. I could see him, but I heard carefully measured footsteps and a soft chuckle behind me as my hair was delicately brushed over my shoulder. “You understand why you are here?” The question, although uttered aloud, was meant for my ears only and I nodded in reply before speaking, my own voice soft.* I have been told, yes. I’ve also been told you are the best at what you do. *There was that chuckle again, deep and knowing. “I don’t know about that Little Darling, but I do know what I am doing. I assure you no harm will come to come to you. Now I can’t say that I won’t hurt you, but I guarantee that you will not be harmed.” The words were a balm of sorts to any fleeting worries that may have possibly been floating around my head, a promise that I knew would be kept. My smile was small and I nodded simply as I awaited instruction. In most photoshoots, it was the photographer who gave the direction but this was not most shoots and the photographer’s job was simply to document, not control. I could hear the shutter click and the soft footfalls but I didn’t turn around, not yet. “Hold your arms out to your sides for me, if you wouldn’t mind.” Part of being a good model was obeying orders and I did that, although not always without question. This time, however, there was no hesitation as the words were spoken and, despite the request at the end, it was not one. I did as asked, holding my arms carefully out at my sides, palms upward, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle as a pair of shined shoes came into my line of sight. “Well done. Now look up. Your shoes can’t possibly be that interesting.” The words were laced with lightness, but still carried a substantial weight which was a balance that was delicate to say the least. Again, I complied without question, lifting my head to meet a pair of deep green eyes. “Good girl.” The term was one I had heard before, although never in this context and it had never, ever shaken me quite so much as it did in this moment. Sucking in a sharp breath, I nodded, words illuding me for a moment as I struggled to process the unspoken change that seemed to have come over me with two simple words. I longed to hear them again and knew, instantly that I would someday, even if I didn’t know how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Straight To Video by Mindless Self Indulgence


	11. The Darkness That Is Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkness and life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, more. All the information in this is heavily embellished and any facts are the result of some research and, in a few cases, observation and should all be taken with a grain of salt. I do try to make sure and treat the issues touched on witj the respect they deserve. 
> 
> I love comments and kudos, they give me life. I am also heavily medicated after a long day and an injured knee so I probably SHOULDN'T update but Flames_And_Jade is an enabler and she said I gotta so here we are. 
> 
> Thank you all for taking time out of your busy lives to read my stories, it means more than you know.

I had always loved the dark. Even as a little girl, I would spend hours outside looking up at the sky. Sometimes I could see the stars and those were my favorites. There was something magical about them, so far away and yet so clear. I loved finding the constellations and spent more time than was probably healthy searching the black skies, even when it was too dark to actually see them in full. I was still determined that I could somehow find them, that they would align for me. They were a constant, the one thing in my life that made sense. Despite being so far away, they grounded me. In a world filled with pain, chaos, violence and delusions, something so concrete, something that never wavered was a touchstone. I couldn’t remember dreams when I was young, but I always knew the stars. The only thing as sure as the stars were the pick of needles. It was an endless cycle but one that I grew to accept, even if I hated it.

 

That continued for as long as I could remember, until it didn’t. Well, part of it anyway. The needles remained, the stars, well… they went black. Everything did, for the most part. 

When you lose something so vital, you have two choices: you either fall apart or you adapt. In essence, however, it was both. I never let anyone see the latter. My progression was a slow one, until it wasn't. That last night in the desert; when I last saw the stars was burned into my memory for all of eternity. Sometimes when I was trying to sleep, I could still see the pinpricks of white against the endless blackness. Much as they had when I was a child, the stars provided guidance, even without being seen. 

I didn't fall apart outwardly. Some people, those that didn't know me; a stranger passing by on the street perhaps, wouldn't even know anything was wrong, not right away. 

I had always been good at pretending, at hiding. It was a trait that was part of survival. Growing up with a schizophrenic was touchy at best and I learned very quickly that it was easier to sometimes play along with delusions that to try and fight them. It was a skill honed over time and one that would pat off, very handsomely. Outside, it was easy, even if I didn't venture past the doors so much anymore. It was never really night in Vegas, everything was always crystal clear and painfully bright. Sunglasses were essentially a requirement so wearing them out, even at twilight, was not uncommon. I had, in all honesty, been doing it for a long while. Photosensitivity was a bitch. As long as I knew where I was going, at the beginning anyway, I just blended in. Put on a smile and just moved a bit more carefully. 

And then it got worse. Days passed into weeks and things got fuzzier, darker. It wasn't as simple as just hiding my eyes. I had to relearn everything. It isn't something that is usually given much thought, these simple daily tasks, but when you can no longer do them, they seem insurmountable. I started counting my steps in the club, aloud at first, and then silently, no matter where I was going. My fingers always trailed lightly along the wall. The smallest changes were glaring to me; a moved couch, a shifted table… I had broken more than a few toes as I explored my new surroundings. The pain, while unexpected, was not at all unwelcome. It was, in fact, the opposite. As much as it wasn't the kind that I craved, it still helped remind me why I was here, where I was and, most importantly, that I was safe.   
Since I had started to live this life, I had been particular. If I wasn't one hundred and twenty percent comfortable with a dominant, no matter who, I would not scene with him. That was standard of course. Trust is implicit, and if it is missing or wavers even in the slightest the results can be damaging in the extreme. But when it came to a blade against my skin, I was unwilling to take chances. While I couldn’t see the map of delicate lines that crossed my body, I could feel them. My skin spoke and in a very unusual way. Each mark told a story; it helped to shape me into who I am and when I let my fingers trail over them, I was able to find some pieces of myself that I tough I had lost. 

When memories of the world are all that you have, you cling to them for everything that they are worth. Mine just happened to be written in my skin by a series of practiced hands. I treasured them. 

As the days passed and the world got darker, I pulled into myself. I stopped taking appointments unless they were absolutely necessary, and only left my room when I had to. I couldn't see any reason to do otherwise. I couldn't remember a time when my life wasn't dark, and not in the depressed sense. Literal darkness. I could see shadows and some shapes but mostly it was nothing. Still though, I didn't let myself break, not on the outside. When I was alone, safe behind secure walls and locked doors, then and only then did I allow myself to fall apart, even a little. My training, both as a mannequin and as a submissive was imperative in keeping my facade intact. As soon as I was able to lock the door to my room though, that all disintegrated. All of the struggle; the mask that was so carefully held in place slipped away and I was left with nothing but the darkness that was life. The darkness was an old friend, of course, but now it meant something so incredibly different. There were no stars dotting the velvet blackness, not this time. No grass under my head or constellations to trace with a finger substituting for a pen in the chilly air. Instead, there was only me and the cold air that seemed to settle around me like a blanket, keeping a constant chill running below my skin. Sometimes I closed my eyes, just for fun, it made very little difference. If I squeezed them tight enough, I could see colors. Starbursts of green and purple, splashes of blue and electric red erupting behind my eyes. Other times, it was much, much simpler and there was nothing but pinpricks of white against the black, so much like the skies that I had gazed up at when I was young. These brief moments, however, came with pain, as did the best things in life. It jarred my brain and, despite my attempts, didn’t go away until I closed my eyes. I could almost instantly feel the headache forming behind my eyes, and it spread like fire, leaving me aching and curled up on my bed, aching but smiling. It was a good kind of pain. 

I was never one to indulge in self-pity, I never had been, but sometimes it was just… hard. When you have to relearn everything that you have ever known; from dressing to eating to taking those damn shots you start to lose sight of who you are and what you can do. As it were. It was those moments where the darkness seemed to overwhelm me. It threatened to take over, whispering in my ear and surrounding me like a suffocating blanket, sleeping in however it could. It was a physical presence, as though it somehow manifested itself from my fears and used them against me. I couldn’t see anything but I could feel it, forcing it’s way down my throat and into my mind as if to swallow up the little bit of light that I had left. I begged, pleaded in silence with the recesses of my mind for those dreams I’d had when I was young. I searched for them, closing my eyes and willing them to appear but no matter how hard I tried, how much I struggled, they wouldn;t come. It was the opposite, in fact as doors seemed to close, one after another, painting everything black except for the pain. That stayed real and it ignited a fire in my head that burned until I slept, finally giving into the darkness that was life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from I Lied by Electric Century


	12. Bright Shining As The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incense and memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of the turning point here, new faces come into play and there is a signifigant shift. 
> 
> Comments, kudos and questions make me a happy lady. Thank you all so, so much for taking the time out of your day to read my rambly little story. 
> 
> As always, thank you to Flames_And_Jade for encouraging my ridiculousness.

The midday heat in Vegas was almost oppressive, a near physical entity that enveloped you and seemed to soak into the very center of your being. It pulled you down, or at least it would in any other city, slowing things to a crawl. But Las Vegas… well, it was not any other city, and it moved at a lightening pace, despite the heat. That strength was something that I had always loved about the city, and was, aside from my career, a main reason why I not only settled here, but stayed after everything. I’d been here for a decade and I knew the streets, at least those around the club, like the back of my hand. There was probably something to be said for that but the levity escaped me as I slipped out of the doors of the club, the lacquer slick and cool beneath my fingers. Even though it had been months since I had seen the color, I wouldn’t ever be able to forget that, I could feel it in the smoothness beneath my fingertips and I kept them against it for as long as I could get away with until the door finally slipped from my grasp and swung closed with a soft click. The heat was almost overwhelming as I stood at the top of the granite steps but layers of light silk and linen had left me more than prepared for that, despite my long sleeves, and my hair was caught up in a bun, piled and pinned at the top of my head. My eyes, as always it seemed, were shaded by dark lenses, almost too dark, but there was nothing to be done about that. Even though they were effectively useless, the sunlight, blinding as one might say, still managed to cause me pain, even without being seen. 

I took a moment to simply get my bearings as I stood there, listening and absorbing. Every sound seemed magnified now, as ridiculous as that seemed; from the snippets of conversations of the people filing past to the engines and horns from the cars that seemed ever present. It was calming in the way that only chaos could be, which was not at all. And yet, if I didn't have that familiarity, that noise and bustle of the city, I would be even more lost. I kept my hand on the railing as I slowly made my way down the smooth granite steps, despite the heat that poured off the metal; I embraced the slight burn, my lips turning up into the slightest smile as I reached the bottom step and gripped it tight letting the heat soak into into my palm. It was centering in a way, and though the comfort was small compared to what the rest of the afternoon held, it was still something. I turned sharp right at the bottom of the steps, keeping my fingers dragging along the wall at my side as my lips moved in an automatic count. It was more than a habit at this point; it was a way of life and in cases like today, when I dared venture out from home, it saved me on more than one occasion. 

There were easier ways to get around, of course, significantly easier ones and the folded cane in my bag was simply one of a dozen options but I couldn't bring myself to get it out, not yet. I may not have been able to see the pitying looks, but I could feel them. I didn’t do well with pity, not ever, and that hadn’t changed with time. 

So it was with my hand against the wall and my lips moving in a silent chant that I began to make my way through the crowd, one step at a time, to one of the last places I had ever expected to end up. 

It didn’t take me long, not really, 8454 steps, along with a few turns and my toes, bare in my sandals, were hitting the cool stairs. I had never been in the building, not once in my ten years here, but I could still see it in my mind, even now and it was beautiful and terrifying; red brick, silvery grey granite and heavy mahogany doors that claimed to be open for all. Somehow, however, they had always been closed for me, although that was nothing new. I climbed the stairs slowly, grasping the rail tighter than I should as I kept my meticulous count until I reached the top. My fingers twitched for a moment as I stretched them out into thin air grasping for something, anything to give me some kind of direction. One, two, three small, shuffling steps, and I was rewarded as my fingers just barely brushed up against warm, smooth wood. A door, of course. I stepped closer until my palm was pressed flat against the surface, the heat not nearly as intense as the bannister had been, but present none the less, as I slipped over the surface, searching for the door handle. I couldn’t help but smile when I found it, rather quickly too, and pulled it open crossing the distance in just a few strides as I entered into a world that was as foreign to me as another planet. At the same time, however, it was exactly as I remembered. The air conditioning was working overtime, pumping out frigid air from above that seemed at war the the light sheen of sweat that clung to my skin, drying it quickly and leaving it with a salty tightness. It even smelled the same, that sharp, earthy, pungent scent of incense hanging in the air, even though it’s time had long since passed. It was a scent that I’d not experienced for the better part of fifteen years, and one that, at one point in time, I had never anticipated smelling again. 

My thoughts drifted, for the briefest of moments to my mother and I could almost see her face as it was before; beatific as she kneeled easily, lips moving in prayer, her golden hair pinned up beneath a hat. She was never without one, not even as she spiralled out of control; she always had her hat on. The memory was bittersweet, tugging at my heart, although it was fleeting as I heard footsteps behind me, soft against the carpet although they seemed male, judging by the gait. I was right, although that fact brought me little solace, as an unfamiliar voice drifted to my ears.   
“May I help you, Miss?” The words were soft and reassuring, beyond welcoming and it took me a moment to get my bearings, as much as it pained me to admit it, and I tripped over my words slightly.   
" I’m just- no- yes. Yes, you can, please. I’m here for confession. I just… I need help." The last words were quiet, nearly a whisper and I dropped my head in something akin to shame, although not quite there. There was no judgement that I could detect, not even the clucking of a tongue, but rather a gentle request for permission as he moved closer. I gave it, of course, with a simple nod, and the hands that rested both on my arm and ever so lightly at the small of my back were strong and slender, with fingers that would not have been out of place at a piano.   
“I’m Father Anthony.” The words were a near whisper, as was to be expected, as were the quiet directions after that. “Eight feet ahead, turn left, ten feet forward, three more to the left and then you can sit.” I followed easily, thankful beyond measure and let out a breath that I wasn’t even aware that I had been holding as I sank into what proved to be a surprisingly comfortable chair.   
"Thank you." My words were whispered as I clasped my hands in the delicate fabric of my skirt as I struggled to get my bearings. Very few things scared me anymore, aside from needles, but this… this was horrifying. That same gentle hand rested over mine for a moment, squeezing lightly and I relaxed just enough to remember where I was and why. With a reluctant start, I raised my hand in a gesture that I had not made in nearly two decades and my voice shook as I spoke. "In the name of The Father, of The Son and of The Holy Spirit. It has been almost fifteen years since my last confession… "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Amazing Grace


	13. Bring Me Back To Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea and trivia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, another peek at Grace and something a bit more... touching, I think? This is one of the most intimate things I have ever written. 
> 
> Everyone mentioned in this little tale has a face, in my mind, and I am more than happy to share them with you if you would like to know. 
> 
> Comments, kudos and questions are what keeps me going. I kind of live for that kind of thing. 
> 
> This is all Flames_And_Jade 's fault, I blame her. And by blame, I mean thank. 
> 
> And thank you for reading. Enjoy.

It was my sixth trip back to St. Patrick’s in less than two weeks and as much as I never imagined that it would, there was a pull that I couldn’t really explain that drew me back there. Whether it was the familiarity from my childhood, the quiet, cool stillness or the ability to just speak freely about my fears and doubts, I wasn’t sure, but I mulled over them all as I stood in the heat at the base of the steps staring at the building but not seeing it, except for the images that remained in my mind. I heard my name just an instant before I felt the hand resting gently on my wrist, the familiar warmth spreading through the linen that covered my arms, and I turned towards the Priest that I had come to know over my visits with a smile. While my first one had been rash, and solely for confession, the ones that followed had been more conversations than anything else, and more than a dozen hours had passed as we discussed faith, and my lack of it, as well as the anger that I held for so many things, none of which I could justify. "Good afternoon, Father Anthony. Were you headed out? I don’t want to hold you up." The words were very true, and I tried to hide the slight twinge of disappointment in my voice. Fortunately, the warm laughter that drifted to my ears seemed to dispel that thought.  
“I was actually, but you wouldn’t be holding me up. You’re more than welcome to join me if you’d like. It’s my day off, such as it is, I was just heading home for some coffee.” I could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke and didn’t hide my own, nodding simply as Father Anthony rested his hand on the small of my back and guided me with the utmost care towards… well, wherever we were going. His gentle voice gave directions the entire way, interspersed with quiet commentary about the passing scenery and we stopped after less than ten minutes. The whispered directions were a bit louder now, and I gripped the banister tightly as I headed up a metal spiral staircase, my steps shaky and my hand sweating even in the air conditioning. 

“You’re alright, Grace, I promise. Two more steps… one. There.” He sounded so proud when I finally felt the ground even beneath my feet that I couldn’t help but grin. Somedays, it was the simplest of things. Sliding past me, I heard the telltale sounds of Father Anthony turning a key turning in a lock and then a door squeaking on it’s hinges before I was easily escorted inside and guided to what was a ridiculously comfortable, overstuffed chair. Setting my purse on the floor at my feet, I turn in the direction of the footfalls on hardwood as my companion moved seemingly through the space. He spoke easily as he prepared coffee, the sounds of water running and china clinking somehow far more comforting and familiar than the quiet murmurs of the church. Slipping my sunglasses off, I fished in my bag for their case and carefully snapped them shut in it, before dropping them back into my purse. 

“How do you take your- Oh! You’re not… your sunglasses. “ The surprise was evident in his voice and I heard the delicate tinkle of silver on china as Father Anthony came to a sudden stop just a few feet from my chair. I laughed quietly, shaking my head and tucking a few loose strands of hair behind my ears. "No, I’m not. I don’t have to wear them all the time, and I try and keep them off when I’m inside. Apparently, it can be a bit off putting, or so they say. And cream please, lots of it." The gentle click of china and soft clatter of silver and there was a mug in my hands. The silence was companionable as we both sipped our coffee, music playing low from some room further back in the apartment. Once my cup was finally drained, I carefully set it on a small table that I felt to my left and returned my attention to Father Anthony who was, judging from the softness of his voice, seated across from me.  
"So, tell me,and please say something if I’m prying, but is this usual? Having guests, I mean." The laugh that greeted me was far from the quiet, almost restrained one that I’d heard in the church. This was warm and deep and real. And it was quite lovely. 

“I promise, Grace, just because I’m a priest does not mean I can’t have friends. Now, that’s not to say I have many of them, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t.” I could hear the laughter still in his voice and I pursed my lips for a moment, as I pondered what I knew of this man. We had talked at length, not only about me and what had led me both away from the church and then back again, but about him as well and I was fascinated. He was exceptionally eloquent and passionate when he spoke of his calling and always managed to describe his life, and his beliefs, in terms that somehow countered the views that I had been exposed to all of my life prior to this. “Can I ask what you are thinking, Grace?” The question was gentle, as were most of Father Anthony’s inquiries, not at all prodding, but still somehow quietly demanding an answer which I gave quickly, with very little forethought, something which spoke volumes of the trust that had grown between us in such a short time..

" I was just wondering what you looked like, is all, Father. I know it sounds ridiculous but I can’t help but… this… the blindness, it’s not new, per se but it still takes some adjustment and surprisingly enough, I rarely meet new people and.. Oh." My voice trailed off quickly as I felt Father Anthony’s hands on mine and his knees brushed my feet as he knelt in front of me. My breath caught slightly as he carefully guided my hands to his face, releasing them carefully. 

“Go ahead, Grace.” The words were soft and encouraging, going farther than I had imagined possible to ease the nervousness that suddenly blossomed in my belly. I didn’t speak, choosing instead to nod as I very slowly allowed my fingertips to trace along Father Anthony’s face. His skin was smooth, almost impossibly so, and I couldn’t help my small smile as I felt along his cheekbones and down across a defined jaw before sliding back upwards across his forehead and my pinkies slipped over soft lashes that were resting against his cheeks. Gliding down the over his nose, I pulled my own lip between my teeth for just a moment before I let my thumbs brush lightly over full lips, shivering at the warm breath that just barely ghosted across them. Closing my eyes, I let my hands travel along his jawline back up to tangle lightly into soft, messy long hair. It seemed fitting, as odd as the thought was, and my smile grew as I ran my fingers through the disheveled locks, smoothing them as best as I could. Father Anthony leaned his head back, just slightly into my hands and I gently ran my nails over his scalp, simply reveling in the contact that had been somehow missing for so long. It wasn’t until my hands drifted down towards the back of his neck and my bracelet caught in his hair that the silence was broken by a soft, almost imperceptible moan just before my hands settled against the stiff collar of his shirt. 

“I’m sorry Grace, I didn’t- I mean. Fuck.” The words, not only the apology but the curse in itself, took me off guard and I jerked my hands back, twisting them in the soft fabric of my skirt as I felt heat rush into my cheeks. 

"No, it’s- I shouldn’t have, my bracelet- and." I tripped over my words, unable to figure out how to get them in the order they were meant to be, and growing more frustrated with each attempt until I finally decided that it didn’t matter. "You swore. I’ve never heard a Priest swear before." It was nothing if not an honest statement and the small chuckle in response had me at ease, at least a bit. 

“I’m going to guess you’ve never spoken to a Priest outside of church then. We all have our bad habits, Grace, some are far worse than others.” I could hear the smile in his voice, and his tone was gentle and reassuring as his hand rested softly over mine.

"I suppose you are right, Father Anthony." Running my tongue over my dry lips, I pondered my thoughts for a moment, my fingers once again twisting absently. 

“You can ask me anything, Grace, I promise you won't offend me.” His words were comforting, more than. I could have imagined at one point in time, and I felt the previous sense of unease slip away as I spoke freely. "How, exactly, is that classified? I know what the Bible says, I know what I've been taught and told, and I have been told a lot through the years, but what truly classifies the magnitude of the sin?" Father Anthony shifted between my feet, more than likely settling on the floor, and I smiled as I felt a shoulder against my knee and the delicate brush of hair against my fingers. “ I’m perhaps not the right one to ask that of but I believe that the only one who can truly judge is Him, no matter how many of his servants we have on earth claiming to speak His word. Judge not, lest ye be judged.” The words were familiar to me and I found myself nodding as I absently played with the soft strands of Father Anthony’s hair.

" I think… that makes sense, and I've never really thought of it like that. I just… with what I've done in my career, people tend to feel that my choices are open to their judgement simply because they are different from what they believe. I don't- what I've done, I have never for one moment thought that it was wrong, and yet I've been told by so many that it is… I guess I should just stop trying to understand." The gentle laughter was unexpected although not at all unwelcome, and Father Anthony shook his head just slightly against my leg. 

“I gave up on understanding people as a whole far before I even entered the seminary, and the last eight years have done very little to change that. People, although His greatest creation, are inherently flawed, although I believe that it is how we embrace those flaws, of both ourselves and others, that brings us closer to Him.” The words were said with such conviction and belief that I found myself almost longing to agree; to be able to see things from his perspective even for just a moment.

"That's just… it's beautiful, Father, truly. I wish… I hope someday I can see things through your eyes, as it were." He shifted again, and there was the slightest brush of fingers of fingers over my cheek. 

“Grace that… sometimes what I see is the worst that the world has to offer. But other times, it's-" The shrill ring of a cell phone cut through the quiet words and there was a soft rush of air as he rose to his feet and moved away, soft footfalls sounding on wood just seconds before he answered his phone. The conversation was brief and I tried to focus on something, anything other than listening to the call and failing miserably. I was already reaching for my purse when I felt him return to my side. “It would seem that my day off has been cut short, can I bring you back home before I return to St. Patrick’s?” 

There was an almost endearing earnestness to his voice and I couldn't bring myself to say no, nodding instead as I rose from my chair, my purse clutched in my hand as I slipped my sunglasses back on.

"That would be wonderful, Father, thank you." He didn't reply, not in words anyway, instead resting a hand easily against my back to lead me back towards the door and out into the searing sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy


	14. Undisclosed Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Storms and confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, things get a bit heated up in here. No real warnings but this chapter and the last make me so nervous it isn't even funny. I really, really hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Questions, comments and kudos mean the absolute world to me and I LOVE to know what you are all thinking.
> 
> All the thanks to Flames_And_Jade for her support, and all of you for reading.

The heat was oppressive and as the weeks wore on, it seemed only to get worse. I had been in Vegas for over a decade so I liked to think that I was immune to it but that was just another lie that I liked to tell myself. At least I wasn’t alone. Every time I stepped out of The Doors, an occurrence that was becoming more and more frequent of late, the humidity had either been so thick that it nearly choked you, or the air was so hot and dry that it seemed as though water was simply a figment of your imagination. Then again, this was a city that had quite literally sprung up in the middle of the desert; the heat was hardly a surprise. Occasionally, however, there would be a blissful respite from the blistering heat courtesy of a storm. Those days were my favorites and if I had the option, I would open my window as the thunder rolled in and simply listen as the wind picked up, and the first fat raindrops spattered against the window panes. It was calming to me, much in the same way as the stars had once been, but the rain… I would never lose that. The stars, well…. They were gone, for me anyway. But the rain, the sounds and sensations that came along with it, that was real and visceral and just as perfect as it had always been. Well, maybe not today. 

As much as I adored storms, I generally preferred them when I was inside. Sometimes, however, that couldn’t be helped. Somewhere between my doctor’s appointments and a few personal errands, I’d missed the weather report and it wasn’t until I heard the familiar, low rumble overhead that I knew what was happening. I may not have been able to see the clouds, not really, but I knew, just from the angry crashes above, that this storm was not one to play with. I stopped carefully in my tracks, for just a moment, keeping my step count in my head and tilted my head up to the sky just intim to feel a raindrop splatter on my nose. My smile at the cool water was immediate, as it was refreshing, but the speed at which that first drop was followed by another and then more was worry some and I turned my attention back to my journey as they began to fall faster when the sky opened up with an almost deafening crash and the deluge began. 

My fingers, as was my habit, were trailing out by my right side, although what they touched had morphed from warm granite and glass to trees and paneled fences as I grew farther from the strip towards the upscale neighborhood that was my final destination. I was almost four thousand steps from St, Patrick’s and I was already dripping wet, my hair plastered to my cheeks and neck, as my skirt and blouse seemed determined to wind their way around my limbs in the least convenient way possible. The electric sizzle and almost deafening crash as lightning struck somewhere close had me quickly reevaluating my my position, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to concentrate, although the gesture was more automatic than anything, and I could almost hear quiet, whispered directions in my ear. My steps were just a little more hesitant, as they tended to be when I went somewhere for the first time, but within minutes I felt the distinctive curves of a wrought iron gate as both the wind and the rain picked up, pelting the stinging drops down almost horizontally. I counted my last steps out loud, quietly, and my grip on the iron railing of the spiral staircase was far tighter than it should be as I took the stairs one shuffling step at a time, finally letting out a breath I didn’t even realize I had been holding once the ground leveled out between my sandaled feet. Five steps forward and I raised my hand to knock on the door that was in front of me, my fingers just barely brushing across the surface before I froze. I could hear two voices on the other side, one belonging to Father Anthony and the other unfamiliar although there was something about it that seemed comforting. 

"That’s not what it’s about, Kiernan, not at all.” Father Anthony sounded exasperated, even through the door and my lips twitched downward in a frown even though my hand remained frozen in the air, I couldn’t knock, not even if I wanted to, although listening to this conversation, one that is so very clearly not meant for me, should have been spurring me to do exactly that. “Finn, I don’t believe you for a fucking second. You can lie to just about anyone. Mom, Nana, The Cardinal, YOURSELF but you have never been able to fucking lie to me and you know it. Give it the fuck up and just admit that this is getting to you.” The words, even though I could only hear then beneath the storm that crashed outside, were obviously a challenge, although it was the reply, laced with frustration and louder than I had ever heard from the man I had come to consider a close friend over the course of the last near two months that had me startled.   
“She isn’t.”   
“Ha! Ha! Fucking liar! You know that’s a goddamn sin, Finnegan. I never said s-” Although the outburst was nearly dripping joy, there was an ominous groan followed by a sickening crash outside and I knocked on the door lightly as I jumped out of fear. The sounds of wood crashing against pavement drowned out the footfalls on the other side of the door but there was nothing that could have even muted the surprise in Father Anthony’s voice.   
“Grace? What are you doing here? Are you alright? How did you get here?” the questions were rapid fire concern and care evident even as his warm hand rested at the small of my back to lead me into his apartment, the door closing with a click behind me.

"I’m okay, just a little wet. I was out for a few appointments and I was planning on stopping by the church but I got caught in the storm and it was closer and I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt." My answer was quick and garbled, almost too loud in the apartment as the sounds of the storm were muted and I could hear the whir of the central air even as goosebumps formed on my wet skin and rainwater dripped into a puddle on the hardwood floors beneath my feet. 

“Grace?” The unfamiliar voice was tinged with curiosity and something else, although I couldn’t exactly put my finger on what, and I turned towards the sound out of habit, blinking needlessly behind my sunglasses. “As in th-”

“Enough, Kiernan.” Father Anthony’s voice left no room for argument even as his hand stayed carefully against the wet cotton of my light blouse. 

“You aren’t ever a bother Grace, nor are you interrupting. This walking epitome of bad manners is my younger brother Kiernan, he lives down stairs and he was just going back down that way. Kiernan, This is my friend, Grace Cairde. Say hello and goodbye.“ There was something finite about his tone and I could hear the quiet squeak of sneakers against hard wood and water as someone, Kiernan I am assuming, slipped past me towards the door.

“I’d apologize for my brother, Miss Grace, but it’s pointless, God knows I’ve been doing it my whole life.” The smile was evident in his voice and I heard the handle of the door behind me turn, the slight squeak of hinges and increased sounds of the storm. "It was a delight, Miss Grace, I hope to see you again soon. Finnegan… just remember what I said.” With that, he was gone, and there was nothing but the storm, soft music playing from somewhere further back in the apartment and the steady pooling of water at my feet for what seemed like an eternity before Father Anthony cleared his throat and dropped his hand from my back. I missed the warmth almost immediately and chased the thought from my mind as I slipped off my sunglasses, snapping them, in their case and shifting my purse form one arm to the other as I brushed sticky, wet tendrils of hair from my cheeks and neck, my fingers trembling with the cold. A soft blanket was draped over my shoulders and hands ran over my upper arms just for a moment before I was guided, wordlessly towards the same chair I’d spent so much time in on my first and only other visit here. The backs of my knees hit the soft seat and I wanted nothing more than to collapse into it but I was absolutely soaked to the bone and I didn’t want to dampen it. I did, however, drop my purse carefully to the floor, stretching my fingers.

“Let me get you something dry and then I’ll make some tea, if that’s alright?” Father Anthony’s voice was quiet again, although almost unsure, in a strange way, and I just nodded as he led me through the apartment, simple directions barely whispered as his warm breath brushed over my temple. “Okay, the hardwood changes over to carpet in three steps, just be careful to step up. They’ll be a door on the left. And the two steps. There.” There was a smile in his voice when his hand, once again, dropped from my back. “If you just give me a second, I’ll get you something you can change into. My head was still spinning as I stood still in what I could only assume was Father Anthony’s bedroom. I could feel the carpet brushing my toes though the straps of my sandals and I wrinkled my nose as I carefully knelt down to pull off the wet, slippery leather off my feet and wiggled my toes in the plush carpeting. It was a simple, small pleasure and allowed me to concentrate, for just a moment on something other than the conversation that I had shamelessly eavesdropped on when I’d arrived. Kiernan had said it is getting to you, and that could have very easily been anything but Father Anthony said she… she not it. Very, very clearly. Pulling my lower lip between my teeth, I weigh the words that were swirling in my mind, glancing up only as I felt a hand on my arm again, and another on my other wrist, the gentle press of soft, warm cotton against my hands. “They are probably far too big, but they are dry and hopefully warm. I’ll go and make some tea so you can have some privacy while you change.” As he spoke, his hand lingered for just a moment on my wrist, giving the gentlest squeeze before falling away as he made his way back to the door, his shoes slipping on the wet hardwood that was just past the carpet." 

Who is she?" The words fell from my lips, unbidden, and I gasped as heat flooded my cheeks, my hand flying to my mouth. Father Anthony’s shoes squeaked to a stop and I heard a small, quiet sound, although I couldn’t quite make out the words. 

“ She is… I didn’t really mean… I’m just-” There was an obvious struggle with every word, almost as though he was in pain as he spoke and I felt a tightening in my stomach before I reached my hand out, ever so carefully towards where I knew he stood, and my fingertips and then my palm rested gently against his cheek as his voice died off. His skin was warm, much like mine felt and I shook my head. My throat went dry as he turned into my touch with a soft sound that I couldn’t quite place. A rolling clap of thunder sounded outside the windows and pulled me out of my slight haze and I spoke a single word, that felt both foreign and right as it fell from my lips.

" Finnegan." I wasn’t sure what I was expecting, not at all, but the stifled moan caught me off guard as the space between us vanished and I pressed tightly against the man in front of me, and I could feel his breath warm against my temple as Father Anthony spoke, voice thick with emotion.

“Forgive me.” I didn’t have time to open my mouth in question before his lips were on mine, my quiet gasp lost against his kiss as the clothes tumbled to the floor with a soft thump at our feet as the storm picked up outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Undisclosed Desires by Muse


	15. The Only Thing That Works For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clicks and questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another bit of Grace's tale. I really hope you all are enjoying this little tale. It has been in the works for going on two years and it is very special to me. 
> 
> Kudos, comments and questions make my day, truly. If you have a moment, I would love to know what you think. 
> 
> As always, love to Flames_And_Jade for encouraging me to post this ridiculousness. And to y'all that are reading, thank you for taking the time out of your busy lives to read my ramblings.

I wasn't sure if it was the storm that woke me from my light sleep or the quiet sounds coming from somewhere close to me but it didn't matter either way. The pelting rain, driving wind, and pounding thunder were all muted by the walls and windows that kept it out, but the soft clicks and the voice, soft and familiar even at a near whisper was what truly roused me from my slumber. I snuggled back into the pillow for a moment, the cotton soft against my skin, but so very different from what I had back in my rooms at The Doors. There was a soft, comforting scent that clung to them, one I could place in an instant and yet couldn't describe if someone held a gun to my head. It was like autumn, but not at all, with incense and coffee and mint mingling behind it. It was intoxicating. He was. There was a slight pang in my stomach as my mind drifted and I felt my cheeks warm. I hadn't intended for anything to have happened, I didn't even think, or dare hope. I knew very well what Finnegan’s profession meant, the vows he had taken and his work, but as he had whispered a pleas for forgiveness, whether from me or his God I did not know, I was done in. The memories were shockingly vivid, remembered sensations sending shivers down my spine. I pulled the down comforter up around my naked body, tucking it under chin with a soft rustle. The sex had been unlike anything I could remember, and nothing like what I could have imagined. Foremost there was no pain, none. I knew, of course, that the two were not intrinsically linked for everyone, but they had been for me, for as long as I could remember. This was, instead, almost the exact opposite. From the moment my wet clothes had been cast aside and I stood exposed in the cool air, there had been nothing but gentle, almost reverent touches and soft whispers, muffled against my hair my throat, the curve of my waist. My own hands wandered easily, pulling on buttons and belts and finally the stiff collar that rested at Finnegan’s throat my fingers almost shaking. His words, nearly as gentle as his touch as his fingers trailed along the thin silvery scars that were raised all over my body, had been almost a whisper.  
“It's okay. I want… I need… Grace.” my eyes had stung then, just slightly, with tears that I blamed on the air conditioning, but as soon as I heard the soft thump of the stiffened fabric falling away, my fears, and there were so many, melted away. 

It was only once my cheeks cooled slightly and I was able to pretend I had some sense of control over myself that I rolled over towards the quiet whispers and clicks coming from the man that still lay beside me. I didn't say anything, not yet, simply listening and struggling to place the words and sounds. Once I figured one out, the other was clear as day. As it were. 

"The rosary?" My words seemed to startle Finnegan, if the click of beads and slight waver in his quiet voice was anything to go by. 

“I-yes. I'm not… it's not for forgiveness, I just-” He sounded something adjacent to flustered, but I couldn't quite call it that, not exactly. The soft clacking of the rosary beads silenced as I felt the bed dip just slightly and Finnegan’s lips brushed lightly over mine, once, twice and finally a third time, just a bit harder. His hand trailed over my cheek lightly and I could feel the cool slickness of the beads that were wound around his fingers against my skin as he let out a sigh. “It's familiar. I've said them as long as I can remember when I needed to calm my mind. The beads are -were- my grandmother's.” 

The explanation was given freely, without a moment's hesitation, and I nodded just slightly, turning my head into Finn’s touch and simply reveling in it for an instant as I tried to find my words.

" Do you regret it, Finnegan? I know what it means to your vows and I just wouldn't want that damaged for a moment of weakness- " My increasingly worried diatribe was cut off quickly by his lips again and I couldn't help but smile into the sweet kiss even as his lips moved against mine. 

“I don't believe in regret, Grace. I think… I'm not sure what this all means, not yet, but I'd like to see. I just… I know that He must have had His reasons for… I'm not, it wasn't a moment of weakness. You aren't, Grace.” As he spoke, Finnegan’s fingers slipped down my jaw and neck, trailing down my arm to lace his fingers lightly with mine in a comforting gesture, the delicate cold of the metal and stone of the rosary beads twisted between both of our fingers. The words, their soft, sure delivery, held an immeasurable amount of comfort, and I returned the gentle squeeze as I snuggled a little bit closer, craving the warmth that seemed to radiate from Finnegan and resting my head on his shoulder, my lips brushing absently against his neck as I spoke,,my voice quiet compared to the storm that was still raging outside the windows. 

" Thank you, Finnegan. I just… I would understand, if that makes any sense." He hummed softly in his chest, gently untangling our fingers and the rosary, setting the latter down on what I could only assume was a nightstand before carefully gathering me in his arms and pulling me closer into his side until we were pressed tightly together. I closed my eyes and focused instead, on the senses that hadn't failed me; The feelings, scents, sounds and remembered tastes that flooded over me. 

“Don't worry, Grace, please don't worry.” Finnegan’s lips were at my ear, his warm breath ghosting over my skin as I fought a shiver, although not from the cold, and slipped my hands back into his soft and disheveled hair.

" I’ll try not to, if that's what- “ My words died off in a quiet whimper as Finnegan’s free hand began to trace, once again, over my scars as though reading them with his fingertips. 

“I don't know what this is, I can't even begin to understand but I want to see. Can we, Grace? Just… for today, please? And we can worry about the rest when the storm ends... “ I couldn’t bring myself to argue, I didn't even want to, and instead curled tighter against Finnegan's side, tangling my legs with his as I whispered against his jaw.

"That sounds kind of perfect." It did, in every sense, and as the storm picked up outside the windows, we lost ourselves in each other once again, holding onto this moment for and long as we could, both almost viscerally aware of how delicate this situation was, and how easily the house of cards that we had so carefully crafted could come crashing down with a single wrong movement. It didn't matter, not yet, not with the storm raging beyond the windows, providing the perfect soundtrack for our own rising passions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Closer by Nine Inch Nails


	16. I Hear You Call My Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somethimes things dont end when they are supposed to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These have been sitting for well over a year and i thought I had posted them. Whoops. Here you go.

It was supposed to stop when the storm ended. Things were supposed to go back to normal. They were supposed to be easy again. They weren’t. I’d left that day in borrowed clothes, the cuffs of the slightly oversized shirt falling below my fingertips, and the soft pajama pant rolled up more than one. The weather had changed and it was almost eerily still combined with the chill in the air. My sunglasses had been perched in place but they were more for comfort than anything. There was no heat on my skin from the sun and I didn’t hide my surprise when Finnegan told me that it was barely seven. The silence in the car, broken only by the soft, familiar notes from the string quartet that flowed from the speakers, was beyond comfortable but there was something behind it, it was heavy and although not ominous, I knew that it held more within it than I wanted to say. There wasn’t anything overly sentimental when the car finally slowed in the parking garage at Flame, I turned to look at Finnegan, although the movement was useless: I couldn't see anything aside from the brief haze of a dark shape, bleeding into a sea of near black. I reached out hesitantly, almost cautiously, my fingers exploring, and very softly brushed them over the warm skin of his cheek with a soft smile. 

"Thank you, Finnegan." My words had been nearly a whisper before I had slipped out of the car, my head down, bag and purse clutched in my arms, as I headed back towards my home, counting the steps along the way. 

That had been nearly a week ago. I hadn't ventured out since, but I had worked, even if it was just a public scene or two. It was nerve wracking to a degree that I hadn’t imagined before. My heart had always been fully in my work, even since my brief leave of absence, but those scenes left me feeling almost lacking. I had chalked it up to being out of the game for so long but there was a tiny, niggling voice at the back of my head, one that I staunchly ignored, that said otherwise. 

I hadn’t left Flame this morning with any specific destination in mind, not really, I just wanted to get out of my head for a little bit. The headaches had returned, with a vengeance, and even the dim lights of my own rooms were too much for me. Fortunately, nature had decided to be kind to me and the sky seemed overcast, especially for this time of year, so the dark lenses of my sunglasses staved off the the pain, although I did probably have the tylenol to thank for that as well. The air was cool, and a light breeze blew, holding the promise of an afternoon shower if I read it right, and I think I did, although there wa no real humidity yet. 

Stepping into the milling crowd that packed the strip even at nine in the morning, I was jostled almost instantly, although I muttered an apology and moved directly as far to the right as I could, my fingers trailing delicately over the walls and windows and my head up high. It was far, far busier than usual, especially for a Sunday morning, and person after person seemed to bump my shoulder, or brush by me casually. I hated that it threw me so quickly, but after the last collision, my breath caught and I stumbled, the toes of my flats getting caught in the cracks of the sidewalk, although I managed, somehow to right myself before I went crashing to the ground. There was no apology given, although I truly never expected one, not anymore. It took a moment to get my bearings, the echos of a hastily hurled insult ringing in my head, and I finally, finally reached into my purse, fishing around until my fingers just barely brushed over cold aluminium that I had avoided for so long. I’d familiarized myself with it, of course, there was no way around it, but as for actual use… I had managed to avoid it. It would seem, however, that my time without it was coming to a rather abrupt end. Withdrawing the item, I extended it quickly, the four pieces slipping into place with a hint of resistance. That would fade in time, or so I had been told, but only if I used it and that was not something I was willing to do, at least not as often as I was supposed to. As soon as the red tip skimmed over the ground, I forced myself to take a step, just a small one, and then another, sliding the cane back and forth. I counted, as always, the steps in my head as I walked, keeping my chin up as high as I could, the defiant tilt of my chin a mask of sorts in hiding the immense discomfort that I was feeling. It wasn’t that people were looking at me, that wasn’t an issue anymore. When you spend the better part of ten years in various states of undress in front of both people and cameras and then having those images displayed in glossy magazines and on video for the world to see, being looked at was not an issue. And even then, that was all that it really was, being looked at. I was a commodity, I still was, but I never allowed myself to be truly seen. Even now that I couldn’t see the people looking at me, I could feel their eyes, catch snippets of whispered conversations as they passed by. I could feel the pity in their stares as though it was palpable. The air thickened and swirled with it and everything in me screamed to just turn around and go home, but I couldn’t, not now. I wouldn’t. Steeling my spine and schooling my face into a mask of indifference, I continued my journey, sweeping the cane in front of me with ever more confident movements as I kept a count of my steps in my head. 

I hadn’t known where I was going when I had left, not really, although where I ended up was far from a surprise. I had never been here on a Sunday, because why would I?, but here I was. It was busier than I had ever experienced, people bustling by although far more considerately than the folks just down the street. I stopped as my cane hit the bottom of the granite steps and took a deep breath, reaching out with my free hand to grasp the rail and slowly make my way up them. That was the easy part. Once I had stepped through the mahogany doors, I was at a loss, suddenly feeling unbelievably alone despite being surrounded by people. I stood for a moment, seemingly lost, until a familiar, soft voice cuts through the din around me, and I suddenly felt more relaxed, and my breathe seemed to come easier, though I knew that was just an illusion. He may have tried to hide it, but I could hear the surprise in his voice as he approached. 

“Miss Cairde you ca- you’re using your cane.” His soft hand rested easily on my arm as he carefully lead me through the crowd, keeping his voice low as he guided me towards a pew. “Are you alright? I don’t have- that is-” He was flustered and yet calm in the same moment, and I shook my head slightly, to rid myself of the memories that suddenly flooded my mind, my hair falling over my shoulders and cheeks flooding with color. 

:No, it’s alright, Father. I just… it was busier than I had anticipated out today and I just needed the extra assistance. I hadn’t meant to come but I just… ended up here, I suppose. It’s been a very long time since I’ve attended mass." I could hear the soft chuckle and fought to keep my hand steady as it slid over the cool, smooth wood of the pew while I sat down, glancing up out of habit more than necessity.

“ Well, I’m glad that you decided to come by, truly. I hope that… well, that you are able to find what you seek. I have to… if you wait after service I can help you. If you’d like.” The offer was so honest, nearly earnest, that I almost felt bad for my thoughts, although I simply nodded as I folded up my cane and tucked it discreetly away, followed by my sunglasses. 

"I would like that very much, thank you Father Anthony." A gentle squeeze of my hand, so quick I thought it had been imagined, and the warmth was gone and I was alone again, in a sea of strangers, their voices, and their gazes, no doubt drifting my way as I sat still in the corner of the pew. They could look, all they wanted, but they wouldn’t ever see me, not really. The only person who had managed to do that in years had just left my side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me over at allkindsofplatinumandpercocet on tumblr. Come say hi if you want.


	17. I Tried to Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hallelujah, hallelujah....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, written over a year ago and never posted because I suck. Title from Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, not now anyway. I knew that, logically of course, but somehow logic seemed to have very little place in my world at certain times and, more so, with certain people. Or just the one, really. I couldn’t explain the pull that Finnegan had on me, and I really, if I was honest with myself, didn’t want to. All I knew was that I liked it, more than. He was calming, or maybe he was just calm, which one I didn’t know, but somehow it was perfect, at least for the time.

Even now as we lay twisted in his sheets, skin salt-slick with drying sweat and our breathing slowing I couldn’t explain it, and I really didn’t want to. ‘Various Positions’ played softly on the record player that sat somewhere further in the room, the familiar words and deep, almost smoky voice sending a familiar chill down my spine. Finn’s fingers, long and gentle, were carding through my tangled hair, smoothing it out as much as he could with my head on his bare shoulder. He was warm and safe and just everything in this moment. Words were, at this point anyway, unnecessary. We talked already, and on a regular basis, outside of these walls. Confession had become, somehow, a twice-weekly event, and the actual reason for it long since passed. I still was as far from religious as I had always been, but there was something familiar and strangely comforting about St. Patrick’s at this point that it was worth it. The purpose, actually confessing my sins, was lost on me, as there was very little that I did that I felt was truly wrong. With everything else that was happening in the world these days; war, famine, death… the horrors that people inflicted on each other day after day, any perceived sins that I may have committed, well, they paled in comparison. The time had become more of an open discussion of, well, everything and, more often than not, was one that carried over into our tea-time conversations, or even just the quiet moments seated in Finnegan’s living room. They never, somehow, crossed that threshold into his bedroom, although whether it was by unspoken agreement or simply because of other distractions, I was never quite sure, but I never complained. There were, of course, discussions that we really, really needed to have, but this was neither the time nor the place. Everything would happen in due time, or at least that is what I told myself. The heavy stuff stayed outside. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Finn’s voice was soft and low, his breath fanning gently against the top of my head. I smiled, I always did in these moments, and gave a small shake of my head, as much as I could in the position I was in anyway.

"They aren’t even worth that much, I promise you."  
Twisting around carefully, my movements were slow and deliberate as I tossed my hair back from my eyes and let my fingertips trail up over Finn’s chest and neck to rest gently against his cheek and he turned into my touch. I could feel the smile pull at his lips and I ignored the ridiculous skip of my heart.

“You know what they say about lying, Grace.” His tone was teasing and I grinned, pleased with myself, however ridiculous that may be. The temptation to mention the bible was strong, but a shake of my head, however slight, tossed that away.

"Tell me what you look like?"

 

Finn’s laugh was rapidly becoming one of my favorite sounds, and that question was one that I’d asked before, getting the same response each time; the soft sound was alway accompanied by a warmth beneath my fingers as a blush spread up his neck and over his cheeks, usually quickly followed by a change of subject. Today though, for some unknown reason, Finn’s hand gently rested over mine and carefully guided my fingers up into his messy hair, his voice quiet. “Brown hair, almost on the mousey side, and in dire need of a trim at the very least, if not an outright cut.” Tangling my fingers in his soft hair, I give a small tug, a bit too pleased at the sharp intake of breath from the man beside me that we both pretended to ignore as he guided booth of our hands down across his temple, our fingers just barely brushing over his closed eyes. “Blue, just blue.” The words were simple and quiet, Finn's tone not really changing as our fingers moved almost delicately over soft skin. I couldn’t see, not really, but I could still visualize, in a sense, and as much as I sometimes longed to be able to simply open my eyes and know what exactly I was missing, I wouldn’t, and couldn’t, fool myself that it would ever happen. I knew better. Instead, I allowed myself to get lost, just for a little bit, in whispered words and delicate touches, committing them all to memory as Leonard Cohen continued to sing softly and the time ticked by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me at Allkindsofplatinumandpercocet on tumblr


	18. When I'm Alone With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprises and secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Love Song by The Cure

The loud, rhythmic beeping was the first thing I noticed as it forced its way into my unconscious, followed very quickly by the smell. That pungent, antiseptic mixture of alcohol sanitizer, bleach and the sharp scent of artificially chilled air, all used to hide sickness and mask death. It meant there was exactly one place I could be. I didn’t open my eyes, not yet, mostly because I didn’t need to. Not only would it not help, but the pain was already throbbing in my head and, if I was honest, everywhere else too. It was cold, freezing actually, and the thin, scratchy sheet and blanket did little to ward off the chill. I swallowed thickly, my throat dry and aching as I struggled to clear my head and attempt to make sense of what was actually going on. Flashes of moments raced through my mind, although they were moving far too fast for me to focus, as though someone left the reel on fast forward, and I whimpered in frustration. The movement from beside me registered before the sound, but only by a few heartbeats. The gentle shift of the uncomfortable hospital bed, the rustle of the blankets and then that one word; the voice was familiar and quiet, gentle as always, although the tone was almost scared. “Grace?”

"Finn." My own voice cracked as I spoke, my throat dry from lack of use and dehydration I had no doubt, but it didn’t matter, not in that moment. My mind cleared, little by little with each passing second, and I could tell he was there by more than just his voice; the soft scent of mint, coffee and, somehow, sunshine lingered just beneath the cold, antiseptic hospital air calmed me if not quickly, then at least a bit. I swallowed thickly, the feeling almost strangely foreign to my parched throat as I tripped over my words, struggling to get them out. 

 

"How- where- I can’t…" The sentence was jumbled and broken, each word failing to connect to the next no matter how hard I concentrated. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything, it’s okay. I’ll just.. I need to get the nurse.” I had been in and out of hospitals for a good portion of my life, it kind of came with the territory, but in this moment the thought of being alone, of Finn in particular leaving, was suddenly terrifying and I grasped at his hand, ignoring the dull throb of the IV that I could feel in my wrist with every small movement. His hands were gentle as he held my small one in both of his, his thumb gently brushing over what was no doubt a failed IV site. The ache dissipated under the tender touch and I let out the breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding. “I’ll be back as soon as she’s done, I promise.” 

I believed him, I always did. I’d never doubted him, not for a moment since we met. There was something about him, truly him, past the collar and the vows that made me feel safe and that… it scared me. It had become home. I nodded my head just slightly, and ignored the involuntary sting behind my closed eyes as I heard the gentle scrape of a chair over slickly polished linoleum as my hand was released to rest back carefully on the starched sheets. As the gentle footfalls faded, I tried to focus, to make some sense of what was happening but it wasn’t working. Snippets of memories, faded and fuzzy, kept springing to the forefront of my mind; nothing that I could actually make sense of though. Pain, dizziness, that indescribable sensation of falling into something thick and black as darkness wrapped its arms around you and then everything else faded. I’d fainted, that was nothing new, but that alone was rarely enough for a hospital stay. There had to be something else I just couldn’t remember what. The tears of frustration I had been trying so hard to hold back finally broke free, slipping warm and wet down my cheeks. I didn’t allow myself more than a few moments and by the time I heard the quiet tap on the doorframe, I was wiping my cheeks and angling my head towards the door. It didn’t mean anything, not really, but it was instinct. 

"Come in." My voice was still gravelly and rough from not being used and I wrinkled my nose in distaste at myself. The laughter that met my ears was musical and kind, much like the voice that followed it. 

“Thank you, Miss Cairde. It’s good to see you awake. My name is Jaymes and I’m your nurse for tonight. Well, for the last two nights, really. I’m gonna just listen to your lungs for a minute, okay? Just breathe in when you feel the stethoscope.” I nodded absently, replaying her words in my head. Two nights. How long had I been in here? Taking the deep breaths that Jaymes requested, I tried futilely to still my shaking hands, settling instead for grasping them in the thin sheets and forcing away thoughts that had nothing to do with my current predicament. Now was not the time. The cold metal on my back, despite the obvious care given to warm it, kept me in the moment and I breathed deeply as Jaymes did her job. “Well, your lungs sound good, and you are awake, so that’s a huge improvement.” Gentle hands, warm despite the cold air, brushed over my wrist as she no doubt looked at the dreaded needle that was in my arm. I tried not to think about it. It didn’t work.

" Can you tell me- I mean, what happened?" My voice was small, almost meek, and I internally cursed myself for being weak, even now. 

“DKA. Your blood sugar was thirty-two when you came in on Sunday. It’s Wednesday now.” The consideration and gentleness that the nurse gave in answering my unasked question was very appreciated and I couldn’t help but shake my head, strands of hair falling in my eyes as she continued her assessment.

"Thank you. I- two days? How have I.. I mean, I’ve been out for two days? " pI knew I must have sounded incredulous at best but Jaymes took it in stride, and I could hear the smile in her voice as she adjusted buttons and monitors with a series of fast, efficient clicks and beeps. “The human body is a delicate and complicated thing at best, Miss Cairde. I can’t explain it but we were worried. Your boyfriend was a mess. I may have bent visiting hours the last two days before he would leave.”

"My boyfriend?" The response was automatic and I had no doubt that the confusion was written on my face. Another laugh, this one warm and delicate, drifted to my ears.

“ About six feet tall, brown hair, Bowie shirt and boots? He wouldn’t leave your side, Miss Cairde.” My face warmed as heat crept up my neck and I dropped my head in a vain effort to hide behind my hair.

"Grace, please. And you mean Finn. He’s not my… it’s complicated. Very complicated." It may very well have been the understatement of the year, but I heard the nurse hum quietly along with the scratch of a pen on paper.

“If you say so, Grace.” Her voice was a bit softer, though not quite gentle, there was a huskiness to it that wouldn’t allow that, but it was nowhere near unkind. “A bit of unsolicited advice though? Hold on to him. I haven’t ever seen Father Anthony quite so passionate about anything, and I haven’t missed mass in almost three years.” I could feel myself pale, if that was possible, and fought the overwhelming panic that rose in me, churning and twisting in my stomach and threatening to make it’s way up my throat.

"I can’t- he’s… please don’t..." The words, such as they were, were fractured and broken, desperation dripping from each one. 

“No, no. It’s not… not like that, at all. I wouldn’t, not even if I wasn’t bound by laws. I may be Catholic, but that doesn’t mean I agree with all of the views. Happiness looks good on him, Grace, and whatever it takes to get, well, nobody should be denied that simply because of what they do for a living.” Jaymes’s soft words, and the hand that covered mine for just an instant, a shockingly comforting gesture, brought me more comfort that I could fully express, and I just nodded mutely. “You’re okay. Now, speaking of, your gentleman friend is out in the hallway. I think I’m going to step out and give you two a minute. Just press the button if you need anything.” I could hear the smile in her voice and felt the touch of plastic against my fingers as Jaymes placed the call button against the tips of my fingers before she turned and was gone before I could even mutter a thank you. 

The room was silent for just a moment before I heard Finn’s boots, heavy against the linoleum, and his quiet, calm voice as he came back, the chair scuffing across the floor. “Grace, are you-? How are you feeling?” The question was loaded to say the least, and I left the call button to reach out to Finn, bypassing the hand that rested on the bed beside me and stretching to brush my fingers over his cheek. The action, delicate as it was, elicited a soft sigh, and he turned into my touch, lips brushing over my palm. It was heavenly.

"I’m alright, a little foggy but okay. She, Jaymes… she knows you." My words were quiet, almost a whisper, and Finn nodded, not moving away from my touch. 

“Yes, Jaymes is one of my parishioners, and one that I trust, fortunately. We have actually spoken at length many times. She is one of the more progressive members of the congregation and has assured me she won’t say anything, to say nothing of confidentiality laws.” He sounded calm, almost relieved as he spoke, and there was a hint of something behind his voice that I couldn’t quite place.

I believe you. And her. She- she said you’ve been here as much as you can, that she pushed visiting hours for you." It wasn’t a question but rather a statement and Finn nodded simply, finally moving away from my touch for a moment before his hand was once again wrapped around mine just a moment before he pressed a tender kiss to my wrist.

“I couldn’t leave. I didn’t want to. Father Macklepenny covered for my services. I needed to be here. I was… you scared me, My Grace.” Finn’s voice broke just slightly, the emotion obvious, and I felt tears pricking at my eyes again, unbidden as my head, already fuzzy, swirled with thoughts and memories that seemed to snap into a sudden, blistering clarity.

"I- I don’t ask, and we don’t talk about it, not really, but I’m asking. I-” My voice wavered slightly but my words were cut off with the gentle press of Finnegan’s lips against mine in a kiss that held more promise than could be expressed with words, and I let myself, just for this moment, get lost in the possibility that it held as the machines, the hospital and the questions of the last few days melted away and I was left with the all consuming feeling of being home and safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come see me at allkindsofplatinumandpercocet on tumblr if you want.


	19. Give Me A Boost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace goes back to work and we see a familiar face....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When OC and established fic collide.... Another chapter I wrote months ago and never posted.

The air of the club was cool, almost uncomfortably so despite the layers of silk and cashmere that served as my armor. I could feel the changes as I walked along the familiar hallways, my hand trailing along the wall to my left despite Mr. Stump’s hand resting gently on my lower back, guiding me easily through the twists and turns that took us from the rooms, past the offices and into the main floor of the club. 

I could feel the changes beneath my bare feet and the transition from soft carpet to warm hardwood and then, finally the slick polished concrete of the club floor was familiar. It was a walk I had made more times in my career than I could possibly count, and count I did, every step silent in my mind, although this was the first time since my world had, quite literally, gone dark. 

The sounds that filled the air were familiar and somehow more exaggerated than I remembered, the clink of ice against crystal, a low hum of whispered conversations, the din of the air conditioning and, above it all, music, bass heavy but still tasteful. I hadn’t realized, until this moment, quite how much I missed this world. As much as the break I had taken was necessary, it was good to be back, I hadn’t realized exactly how much I needed my work. Then again, I had found other ways to fill my days and, even more so, my nights. 

That held another weight in and of itself. Finn, being the man that he was, had no qualms with me working again. He was concerned, of course, but not because of the work itself, more for my safety in general. After waking up in the hospital, and the conversation with Jaymes, things had shifted between he and I in a way that held more than I could have imagined, although nothing had been spoken of, not in words anyway. 

“Miss Grace?” Mr. Stump’s words brought me out of my slight haze as we stopped his hand still resting at the small of my back. The floor beneath my feet was still cool and the wall smooth as I reached back out, grazing my fingers along the intricate molding of a door frame. “Watch the step.”

I nodded at the soft words and moved forward slowly, almost cautiously into one of the many rooms that were off of the main floor. “Thank you, Mr. Stump.” 

My voice was quiet, although not hesitant. I had known the gentleman that was currently escorting me for years, we had run in the same circles when I was training and had stayed in touch ever since, scening more than once over the years. I had gone to him very specifically when I had decided to start working again, when I knew that I was ready. Despite how many Doms I had met over the years, and the number was almost surprising when I thought back on it, there were very few that knew of my current state, and even fewer still that I would trust to scene with, no matter what the interaction. Mr. Stump, although he had a collared submissive whom he was deeply devoted to, was one of the few names on my list that I would consider trusting to the extent that would be necessary at this point in my career. 

I had, of course, spoken with both him and his training submissive; surprisingly, she was one that I already knew. Charleigh was kind in a pure in a way that was not often seen in this city; she had assisted me more than a few times after I had first lost my sight, and the invitation was always there if I needed any further help. It spoke volumes for them both.

“Miss Grace, do you object to an audience?” Mr. Stump was just a few steps behind me, his voice gentle, although he had dropped his hand.

“Of course not, Sir. If I could just get situated first?”

”Whatever you need, Grace.” The words were accompanied with a gentle squeeze to my wrist. “If you take four steps forward, there is a chair for your clothes and whatever other belongs you may have, although I am more than happy to store anything that you may have.” Mr. Stump spoke with a practiced efficiency, although he was by no means distant. With the interactions that we had had over the years, the traditional formalities were far from necessary and for that I was thankful. I dipped my head in thanks, moving cautiously until I felt the aforementioned chair against my shins. I undressed quickly, each delicate layer of clothing folded carefully and set on the chair as it was discarded; sweater, camisole, skirt and undergarments each in turn, all the fabrics luxurious and delicate against my skin. The last thing to be removed were my sunglasses and I could feel the tremble in my hands as I folded them up and set them on top of the pile. “Are you sure about this, Grace? You don’t have to do anything you know.” There was a certain reassurance in the words, a gentleness that I knew was not present for everyone, and I nodded, turning my head in the direction of his voice with a small smile.

“As much as I appreciate that, and I know, I truly do, this is something I have to do, Sir. It’s been far too long and I won’t let myself be controlled by something so far out of my hands any longer.”

I kept my eyes closed while I spoke, simply out of habit more than anything else, but I did open them when I heard Mr. Stump’s quiet laughter. It was not mocking, not in the slightest, although anyone else may think so. His touch, as his hand brushed over my hair, was gentle and I leaned into it, thankful for the familiar comfort. “As you wish, Grace. If you’d like to keep your glasses on, you know you can.”

“I know, Sir, and I am thankful for that offer, but I think I need to go without them, although I will be keeping my eyes closed.”

“As you wish, Grace. You can kneel whenever you are ready.” Mr. Stump was standing just a few steps to my left and I could hear the familiar rustle of the ropes in his hand, the sound sending a pleasant happiness through me even as I carefully lowered myself to my knees. There was a blanket already spread on the floor, thick and soft to buffer my skin from the cold polished concrete. My wrists were crossed behind me and my head bowed, as my as rested easily against my heels. 

“Lovely, Grace, as always. I’ll be re-opening the door now unless you object.”

“I’m alright with that, Sir.”

My words were quiet and I felt myself shifting mentally, the slide from preparation into work both familiar and very much missed. Giving a long exhale, I kept my head down as I heard the sounds of footsteps on the floor, both the delicate click of stilettos and the heavier thump of well made men’s shoes; It would seem Mr. Stump had drawn quite the audience. That was not a surprise, he did exquisite work. The whispers from the gathered crowd did not go unnoticed by me, although I could not fully make out all that was being said. Some voices were familiar, other not so much, but each one belonged to someone who was here for a reason, whatever that may be, and I was no different. 

Mr. Stump didn’t talk much as he worked, although the fact that we had already discussed many of the specifics of our scene ahead of time no doubt aided in that. The gentle slide of the linen and hemp rope against my skin was at once familiar and somewhat jarring, although I welcomed the very slight roughness from the natural fibers. Mr. Stump was efficient and surprisingly gentle as he worked, knotting and pulling the ropes with a palpable focus. His fingers, on the occasions that they brushed over the map of fine, raised scars that crossed my body, were gentle, a stark contrast to the tight pull of the ropes as he maneuvered me into position. 

I let myself drift as he worked, my mind going beautifully, blissfully blank as I focused on nothing but feeling; The ropes against my skin, the beautiful pressure and pull, even the tugs as knots were worked again and again, pulling my shoulders back and pressing my wrists together. Even the noise of the audience and the delicate tinkle of piano that drifted through the speakers above soon dissolved into a gentle hum and, eventually, silence as my mind went blank and my body felt light, despite the constant pressure and tug from the ropes. There would be marks, of that I was sure; indentations left in my flesh that crossed with my scars, telling a story of their own with every turn, and I longed to feel them beneath my fingertips, to trace the patterns as much as I could, remembering their story as much as I could until they faded back into nothing but the same taut expanse of muscle, bone and skin that they always were. 

Each knot, from the ones that crossed my chest and wrapped around my shoulders, to those that trailed decoratively, evenly, down my spine and ended with my wrists, binding them together told a story; one that spoke to years of training and practice, a dedication to an art that so many seemed to admire and yet so few could properly achieve. 

It was, as always, an honor to be able to be a part of this tale, this moment in time, and I was light, almost heady with the familiarity and comfort of it, although it wasn’t until I heard those two words, the same ones that I had not even known I had missed as the last knot was secure, in a familiar, low voice, that I really, truly realized how much I had missed my work and I couldn’t help but smile with the praise even as they echoed in my ears. “Good Girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat at Allkindsofplatinumandpercocet over on tumblr, I promise I don't bite.


	20. The Way That We Cope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight storms, music and revelations part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another thing that has been languishing in my finished docs for ages. Not betaed because that's how I roll. 
> 
> Comments make the world go round, seriously.

The storm outside was nearly perfect. Crashing thunder, vivid lightning and heavy rains pelting against the windows provided the perfect soundtrack for the unholy hour, as it were. The clock on my nightstand had read 2:53 when I had slipped from the bed, the green light almost perversely at odds with the blue-white lightening that flashed through the windows. I’d left Grace asleep, her pale limbs tangled in dark sheets and the map of scars on her back almost glowing in the dim light. She was lovely, always, but there was something especially peaceful about her when she slept; the quiet strength that she always seemed to carry melted away and revealed something not fragile, not in the least, but softer, as it were, nearly delicate, although I knew she was the strongest person I’d ever known, save for Kiernan. Tugging on some pajama pants, I shook away the bleariness of sleep and slipped my glasses into place, blinking as the world shifted into a sharp, almost painfully crystalline focus. 

My footfalls were quiet on the wood floors as I listened for the sounds of my brother beyond the storm. Nothing; the house was quiet at the moment, which perhaps was for the best. He had never been prone to over sharing, not entirely, but perhaps that was just with me. Little brothers were a particular breed, and I knew that mine didn’t have it easy. He was still sick, that much was obvious, but he was quiet which hopefully meant sleeping, a lovely reprise from his usual insomnia. The low hum of the air conditioner as it spilled artificially chilled air over my still bare skin brought a strange kind of comfort. Grabbing a t-shirt from the basket that sat only partially hidden inside the laundry room. It was soft, worn with age, the once crisp black now faded to an almost dull grey and the design on the front impossible to make out. It had, at one point in time, been mine, but Kiernan had long since claimed it. The Catholic church seemed to frown upon its priests wearing Led Zeppelin shirts, although I never quite understood why. 

A particularly bright flash of lightning cut across the sky beyond the windows, illuminating the room in a sudden, almost overwhelming burst of light before a delayed clap of thunder. I was awake, almost obscenely so, and at odds as to what to do now. The coffee pot would be an obvious start; I had a partially written sermon on my desk in the office that i should work on, and a few outlines for other projects around the church that truly begged my attention, to say nothing of the half-finished papers that demanded my attention. They could wait. 

The instrument sat on a stand in the corner, long neglected but well cared for, cleaned constantly although not played in far too long. It was mine, a remnant of another life, but the weight and heft of it in my hands, the almost warmth of the bright orange lacquer as I settled into a nearby chair and rested the bass on my lap. My fingers felt almost strange against the strings, my fingers fumbling over cords long since forgotten and the press of the metal under now tender fingertips was bordering on painful but in the best of ways. “There’s a cost my friend, for living out some other dream.” 

I stumbled and fumbled through a few barely familiar songs, hitting more wrong notes than right ones, and tried to force the memories that threatened to swirl up back. I was not a stupid man, I even had the degrees to prove it, but I knew better than to try and delude myself when I was in the middle of a losing battle and finally let the memories wash over me. 

 

I was far from a perfect man of God, the woman in my bed pretty much secured that, but I was okay with that. Before I’d entered the seminary, hell before I was even an undergrad, I was living a vastly different life. Every boy dreams of being a rockstar at some point and anyone who says otherwise was lying; there was something so alluring about the gritting, dark and almost strangely forbidden world of music that had drawn me in when I was young. It had pulled Kiernan as well, although not to the same extent. I wasn’t pheneomenal, not at all, but I was moderately decent, especially in a small town. As it turned out, my vices turned out to be a bit more indulged than my virtues at the point in time and I hit the bottle hard. Through some miracle, divine intervention in the weirdest sense maybe, it took a fight, a car crash and a late night stumble into a church that made me stop and forget what we were fighting for, I lost whatever visions and dreams that I may have had amidst a mess of shattered glass and bent metal. I was one of the lucky ones. 

Somehow, my parents never picked up on my late night escapades and, according to Kiernan who was truly the only other person who may possibly still know about them, they never would. 

Three people had lost their lives that night, and my own changed dramatically. I’d shifted focus, trading the dark for some desperate attempt at cleansing my soul which, while no longer burdened, was still heavy at times, although never for the reasons most people would think if they could see my life beyond the collar I wore that, while it was who I was, tended to be taken at nothing but face value; I wasn’t my calling anymore than Grace was her job, or Kiernan was his illness, but according to anyone who looked, it was all one in the same. 

My fingers slipped on the strings as a pair of bare feet appeared in my field of vision, the sound distorted and strange as it echoed in the quiet of the house. I hadn’t heard Grace as she had approached, quiet and very much the epitome of her name, and couldn’t help the smile that pulled at my lips as I carefully set the instrument aside and reached for her hand, twisting my fingers easily with hers and gently pulling her into my lap. She was warm, soft and sweet in all the same ways that the bass I’d just set aside was hard and cool, but she fit just the same, better maybe, as her head rested on my shoulder. She was wearing on of my shirts, the same one from earlier, that had been discarded in haste, the pale white cotton looking almost regal in a way I couldn’t seem to describe. I was a fool, and far too gone to think about it at this point in time. “Did I wake you? Do you need anything? Tea, Diet Coke, a cookie?”

Grace laughed softly and shook her head. I could feel her smile, her messy hair tickling my cheek. She smelled like vanilla, roses, and sex which should have been absurd, but it was actually kind of perfect. “No, the storm did. I’m okay, Finn, I promise. I just had a bad dream and you were gone when I woke up so I followed the music.” Her words were well measured and quiet, her breath warm against my neck. She spoke very easily, but it was a testament to her that she had traversed the house so well in the dark, although that was her entire world. I let my fingers trail over her bare thigh beneath the hem of her shirt and hummed some mindless scrap of a barely remembered song as my other hand rested on her waist. She was small beneath my touch and still easily the most imposing and frightening creature I had ever known, and I was suddenly terrified beyond measure, although I couldn’t explain why, not to myself anyway. She was beautiful in the flashing light from the storm and it was suddenly all far too much; the memories, the need, the utter panic.

 

“Grace I-” My voice trailed off and I swallowed thickly as lightning struck somewhere close outside the window with a deafening, almost electric sizzle.

“Finn, are you alright?” She shifted on my lap, twisting to rest a soft hand to my cheek, looking at me, seeing me on a level that no one else ever had, even through the clouded honey-brown of her eyes; even though she couldn’t see me at all. Brushing my thumb over her cheek, I nodded my head, knowing the movement was felt, however slight.

 

“ I’m fine, I promise I just. I know we don’t talk about it, we never do, but jesus Grace, you have to know. Tell me you know. Please.” It was a plea, one that came from somewhere that I couldn’t place and my voice cracked with emotion that I had tried in vain to hide. Grace smiled softly, turning into my touch and nodded. 

“I know, Finn. I know. I l-” A painful sounding cough from the stairs stopped her words dead cold and we both startled, turning towards the kitchen door where a sleep disheveled Kiernan had stumbled, bleary eyed and blinking into the living room with a bottle of water in his hand. 

“It’s about fucking time.” With that, he raised his bottle in a salute and trudged back down the stairs as the storm raged on outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me over at Allkindsofplatinumandpercocet on tumblr and say hi. I don't bite and will probably fangirl over you.


	21. You And Me Till The End Of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Midnight storms, music and revelations part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not betaed cause that's how I roll. The last installment of what has been lingering in my completed chapters folder for months. 
> 
> Comments make the world go round, truly.

It was storming, rain lashing at the windows and thunder crashing overhead. The cacophony of noise was the first thing I had noticed as it pulled me from sleep, and the second was that I was alone in a bed that was more familiar than my own of late, although it truly shouldn’t have been. The sheets were cold where Finn had slept, the soft cotton luxurious under my fingertips as I ran them over the empty bed. There was something so very heavy in waking up alone here that made my stomach ache; it felt wrong, despite the gravity of the situation. I wasn’t foolish, quite the contrary; I knew very well what I was doing, and the risks involved, I had since the first day I’d stumbled into St. Patrick’s, although I had never even considered where it could possibly end up. Here, however, was the farthest possibility from my mind and yet I had never felt like I had belonged somewhere more. It was a beautiful mess, to say the least. 

My legs were shaky as I made my way out of the bed, the quiet notes of what sounded to be a bass drifting through the house beneath the raging wind. The floors were warm and smooth beneath my feet and, although I thought otherwise for a moment, I left the tangled sheets in the bed and reached out carefully as I edged along the perimeter of the room. My right hand trailed easily along the wall, the smooth painted walls giving way the the cool glass of the window and the filmy gauze of the curtains before changing to heavy, solid wood of the bureau and armoire. There it was. The short had been absently discarded, although I had no doubt it had been done with the same care that imbued everything that Finn did, no matter what the circumstance. There was a certain gentleness to him that I couldn’t ever seem to explain; a reverence that was almost imbued in him as a person. It was there with every word, and every touch. I couldn’t see him, no matter how I wanted to, but I could feel him when he was near, always. 

I moved slowly as I shrugged into the shirt, my fingers fastening the buttons carefully as my shoulders protested the movements. I’d worked the last few nights and I could feel my bruises shine in protest. There was no burn, however, the lovely pull as wounds stitched themselves back together. I’d not felt the sting of a blade in longer than I could remember, but that was okay. The dull pressure of a flogger and sharp snap of leather worked wonders and left marks in their own ways. The fingerprint points of pressure on my thighs, however, were another story entirely; I relished them, each in turn, and the memories they brought rushing back had my cheeks warming, no matter how ridiculous it may have been. My hair was a mess, tangled and brushing over my cheeks. I needed a cut, and badly, but I couldn’t bring myself to find a salon. Maybe someone at Flame could help; or Finn even, he had impeccably steady hands. 

The music got louder as I headed towards the living room, counting steps silently in my head as my fingers trailed across the wall. I could feel the changes beneath my feet, hardwood to soft carpet and then cool, smooth tile in the kitchen before a final transition to the plush carpet of the living room. There was a quiet hum accompanying the music now, with the occasional word muttered between notes that were familiar and yet entirely new. Moving through the living room was easy now and I finally paused in front of Finn;s preferred chair just before the music stopped. I was settled in his lap in a blink, not bothering to hide my smile as I rested my head on Finn’s shoulder, reveling in the familiar scent of laundry soap and warm cotton.

“Did I wake you? Do you need anything? Tea, Diet Coke, a cookie?” The concern in his voice was evident and I could feel my stomach swoop slightly as I shook my head.

“No, the storm did. I’m okay, Finn, I promise. I just had a bad dream and you were gone when I woke up so I followed the music.” He seemed somewhat placated by my answer, it was absolutely the truth, and his hands rested easily, one on my thigh and the other over the soft material of my purloined shirt, the warmth of his skin soaking through and almost seeming to burn as a reminder.

“Grace I- “ There was something off about Finn’s voice, something desperate and aching that I had only heard once and that was when I was in a hospital bed; fear.

“Finn, are you alright?” I moved slowly, carefully as I turned to face him, my hand soft against the barely there stubble that covered his jaw. Finn’s thumb, gentle and reverant as always, brushed over my cheek and I turned into the touch, needing it more than I could say. 

“I’m fine, I promise I just. I know we don’t talk about it, we never do, but Jesus Grace, you have to know. Tell me you know. Please.” There it was; the elephant in the room that we always danced around, the only subject that we ever avoided, no matter what. I knew the cost. Our broken fairytale was growing so hard to hide; despite how hard we may have tried. I nodded, softly; there was nothing else I could do but then the words came almost unbidden, bubbling up from where I had fought them for so long. 

“I know, Finn. I know. I l-” My words were interrupted by a barking cough from the kitchen, one that made my own lungs ache in sympathy; Kiernan.

“It’s about fucking time.” He didn’t speak again, but I could hear his footfalls on the stairs as he headed back down to his room, the creaking of wood the only sound in the house for several long moments as the storm battered against the windows. 

“Back to bed?” The request was muffled with emotion and I just nodded as I slipped from Finn’s lap, holding my hand out. Although the silent request was for guidance, technically, there was so much more than that in the simple gesture, and I gently squeezed Finn’s hand as he lead me back to the bedroom, whispering instructions under his breath. 

The bed felt better when he was there, everything did. He was warm and solid and home, in a way that I had never even imagined. My shirt, borrowed as it was, was pulled off, tossed away in no doubt the same manner as it had been earlier no doubt. There was something desperate to the touches now; an ache of things that had been unsaid. Words were gasped against sweat-slick skin, and the echoes of moans were barely audible beneath the sounds of the storm raging outside. Lost against the cries of passion, three words stood out among the rest, the same ones that had been danced around for months, the only ones that could make a difference, that could ruin everything. They were muffled over and over against the damp skin of my neck, Finn’s warm, solid weight a beautiful pressure as came apart, shaking with tears in my eyes. “I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come find me at Allkindsofplatinumandpercocet on tumblr, I wont bite.


	22. For The Fallen Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Letters, confessions and fires...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little different from what I normally write, given that it is a letter and all, but here it is. Unbetaed because that is how I do, although Grammarly is a lovely thing. Comments and kudos make the world go round, y'all, seriously.

November 22, 2018

 

Dear…. Well, I don’t really know. Not that I don’t know, I am just not quite sure how to go about addressing this. If I were praying, I would know. If I were giving a sermon, I would know. But those things, well… when you say words aloud, that gives them shape, it makes them real and it means that you can be heard; that others can know. This, however, is not something anyone can know, not outside of this paper. Not outside of who already knows. 

I’m writing because I have to. I have questions that demand answers and, barring that, that simply need to be asked. If I keep them to myself any longer, locked up and secure in the vault of my mind, I think that I may go insane and that isn’t a good look on me, as You well know. 

Why. I need to know fucking why. I knew who I was, what I was doing for so long that I almost became complacent, in the strangest of ways. I never forgot my calling and I did everything that You asked of me. Everything. College, Seminary, obeying my vows; after that one night, everything was to the letter. I know, of course, that I have more sins to atone for than most, I’m not deluded enough to believe otherwise, but Jesus Christ when is it enough? 

I know what they say, hell I know what I say; I tow the party line, say what I am supposed to and assign penance as is fit. I know they say that you never give anyone more than they can handle, but how is that decided? You have always been there for me, a presence almost physical at times; I knew you were with me in the same way the wind blows. You were just there. I trusted you, with everything that I am; I still do, but I question, I have to. If I don’t then none of this makes sense. You know everything, and you are the cause for everything, the whole universe; I accept that. There is a reason for everything, I know I know. But what the fuck are the reasons? How much weight can you lay on someone’s shoulders until they are unable to bear the burden anymore? 

What is it that determines that breaking point because I am fucking sure that I am beyond past it. I can understand why, of course, but still. I have devoted my life to you for the last fucking decade; ten years of my life in your service. You are my calling, and although it took me a while to find You, I did and I think I am pretty fucking good at what I do. Yes, I have my downfalls of course but I am, unlike you, only human and some things just can’t be helped. 

I thought I knew you, you were my constant and my rock, the only one besides Kiernan and Mom who I had; you are still with me, although you seem farther away than you ever have. I can see why. I’m a hypocrite, I know this; I have broken my vows and betrayed you in a way that is inexcusable. I accept this and I have confessed my sins, although I can’t seem to stop. I blame you, you know. I hate it, but I do. 

Kiernan is sick, really, really fucking sick. He won’t tell me how bad it is, but I can hear him at sometimes, coughing and tossing. Some nights are better than others, but he doesn't deserve that, not for an instant. He is an asshole sometimes, but he is a good person, one of the best. And yet, he is being punished. He is worth more than that and You know it; you must. That doesn’t matter though, because it isn’t more than he can handle. That, in and of itself, is a crock of shit. He doesn’t owe you; he has not forsaken you or broken any of the major commandments; hell, he is a better man than I am, without a doubt and yet? He gets an undue burden; that weight on his shoulders is more than he needs and I hate it. I hate You for it sometimes; during the days when he was at his worst, I cursed you even as I begged you to help him. I’m a hypocrite; I know this. 

I can list my sins, but it’s pointless, really. I don’t regret them, I don’t regret Grace for an instant. I should, logically, according to everything that I have been taught, that I have felt and that I agreed to, I should regret her. I should be ashamed, begging for forgiveness. Well, and I state this with all due respect, fuck that. There are worse things than loving someone than being in love with someone. I look around and see all of the horrors that happen every fucking day; the endless injustices, the pain and suffering, and death, war and hatred… it seems to me that maybe, just maybe, there are more serious things to deal with than who I am sleeping with. 

Then again, that is kind of part and parcel of my calling, and that is what I still see it as. I know you want what is best for me, and I am supposed to trust you because you have a reason for everything. Yada, yadda, please see above. Grace is the strongest fucking person I have ever met, EVER and I have to believe, because you told me so, that you put her in front of me knowing what would happen. You had to. Maybe I am weak, although I would never dream of categorizing her as a weakness, that is not at all the same thing. But You must have known, you had to. I know I should have been strong enough to resist, I know I should have been a lot of things. But despite my collar, my vows and my devotion to You above all things, I am still a man, and a very fallible one it would seem. 

I know the consequences of my actions all too well; I know the price I should pay, and the price I am supposed to pay. The ramifications of what I am doing are not unknown to me and I have seen them time and again, although not for exactly the same things. I could very easily lose everything that I have worked for, that I have been called to do and why? Because someone decided somewhere along the line that it was not allowed. I understand how blasphemous that is but frankly, I don’t care. I can believe in and serve You without having to bend to the ideals that have been put in place by men exactly as human as I am. It is if you will forgive me, bullshit of the highest order.

I am, as you can probably tell, more than a bit conflicted but just the act of writing this letter, even if it is destined for nothing more than the fireplace, has cleared my mind of some of the questions that never seem to stop circling, however, more have popped up in their place. Such is life, I suppose. I think, for now, that I will call an end to this little missive of mine. The flames are waiting, and so is Grace and I am going ask forgiveness instead of permission, once again. 

Your Faithful Servant,   
Finnegan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on Tumblr, if that is your jam... Allkindsofplatinumandpercocet... I'll probably fangirl over you, so...

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Amazing Grace. Because well, of course.


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